.IBRARY 


•  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAT  FORNIA 


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THE  MONEY  MASTER 


BOOKS  BY 
GILBERT    PARKER 

PUBLISHED    BY   HARPER   &   BROTHERS 

THE   MONEY  MASTER.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE  JUDGMENT  HOUSE.     Illustrated.     Port  8vo 

CUMNER'S  SON.     Post  8vo 

NORTHERN   LIGHTS.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE   WEAVERS.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

THE   RIGHT  OF  WAY.     Illustrated.     Post  8vo 

A  LADDER  OF  SWORDS.     Illustrated.     Post  Svo 

THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  NO  TURNING.    Poet  Svo 

THE   BATTLE   OF  THE   STRONG.     Post  8vo 

AN   ADVENTURER  OF  THE   NORTH.     16mo 

A  LOVER'S   DIARY.     (Poems).     16mo 

PIERRE  AND   HIS   PEOPLE.     lOmo 

A   ROMANY   OF  THE   SNOWS.     16mo 

WHEN  VALMOND  CAME  TO  PONTIAC.     16mo 


(PUBLISHED   ELSEWHERE) 

MRS.   FALCHION 

THE   TRESPASSER 

THE  TRANSLATION   OF  A   SAVAGE 

THE  TRAIL  OF  THE   SWORD 

THE   SEATS  OF  THE   MIGHTY 

THE   POMP  OF  THE   LAVILETTES 

DONOVAN   PASHA 

OLD  QUEBEC.    (In  collaboration  with  C.  G.  Bryan) 

ROUND   THE   COMPASS   IN   AUSTRALIA 

EMBERS.     (Private  Publication  only) 

YOU  NEVER  KNOW  YOUR  LUCK 

THE  WORLD  IN  THE  CRUCIBLE 


THE    ISUAL    PPOCESS   OF    ROMANCE    HAD    BEEN    REVERSED — HE   HAD    NOT 
X\VED    HER    LIKE,    IU  T    SHE    HAD    SAVED    HIS 


THE 

MONEY  MASTER 

BEING  THE  CURIOUS  HISTORY  OF 

JEAN  JACQUES  BARBILLE,  HIS  LABOURS 

HIS  LOVES  AND  HIS  LADIES 


BY 

GILBERT  PARKER 

AUTHOR  OF 

"THE  SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY"  "THE  RIGHT  OF  WAY' 
"THE  JUDGMENT  HOUSE"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED     BY 
ANDRE  CASTAIGNE 


HARPERS  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK   AND    LONDON 


THE  MONEY  MASTER 


Copyright,  1913.  1914.  by  Hearst's  Magazine 

Copyright,  1915,  by  Harper  &  Brother* 

Printed  in  the  United  State*  of  America 

Publiihed  September,  IQIJJ 


College 
Library 


TO 

P.    M. 

AND 
D.    M. 

IN    THEIR     HOME     BETWEEN 

THE 
MOUNTAINS    AND    THE    SEA 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  GRAND  TOUR  OF  JEAN  JACQUES  BARBILLE   .    .  i 

II.  "THE  REST  OF  THE  STORY  TO-MORROW"  ....  22 

III.  "  TO-MORROW" 32 

IV.  THIRTEEN  YEARS  AFTER  AND  THE  CLERK  OF  THE 

COURT  TELLS  A  STORY 41 

V.  THE  CLERK  OF  THE  COURT  ENDS  His  STORY     .     .  57 

VI.  JEAN  JACQUES  HAD  HAD  A  GREAT  DAY     ....  71 

VII.  JEAN  JACQUES  AWAKES  FROM  SLEEP 86 

VIII.  THE  GATE  IN  THE  WALL 94 

IX.  "Moi — JE  Suis  PHILOSOPHE" 103 

X.  "QuiEN  SABE" — WHO  KNOWS! 116 

XL        THE  CLERK  OF  THE  COURT  KEEPS  A  PROMISE   .    .  129 

XII.  THE  MASTER-CARPENTER  HAS  A  PROBLEM      .    .    .  139 

XIII.  THE  MAN  FROM  OUTSIDE 153 

XIV.  "I  Do  NOT  WANT  TO  Go"       175 

XV.  BON  MARCHE 186 

XVI.  MISFORTUNES  COME  NOT  SINGLY 209 

XVII.  His  GREATEST  ASSET 233 

XVIII.  JEAN  JACQUES  HAS  AN  OFFER 245 

XIX.  SEBASTIAN  DOLORES  DOES  NOT  SLEEP 261 

XX.  "Au  'VoiR,  M'SIEU'  JEAN  JACQUES" 268 

XXI.  IF  SHE  HAD  KNOWN  IN  TIME 292 

XXII.  BELLS  OF  MEMORY 305 

XXIII.  JEAN  JACQUES  HAS  WORK  TO  Do 317 

XXIV.  JEAN  JACQUES  ENCAMPED 326 

XXV.  WHAT  WOULD  You  HAVE  DONE? 338 

EPILOGUE 355 


EPOCH    THE    FIRST 


THE  MONEY  MASTER 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  GRAND  TOUR  OP  JEAN  JACQUES  BARBILLE 

PEACE  and  plenty,  peace  and  plenty" — that 
was  the  phrase  M.  Jean  Jacques  Barbille, 
miller  and  money-master,  applied  to  his  home-scene, 
when  he  was  at  the  height  of  his  career.  Both  winter 
and  summer  the  place  had  a  look  of  content  and 
comfort,  even  a  kind  of  opulence.  There  is  nothing 
like  a  grove  of  pines  to  give  a  sense  of  warmth  in 
winter  and  an  air  of  coolness  in  summer,  so  does  the 
slightest  breeze  make  the  pine-needles  swish  like  the 
freshening  sea.  But  to  this  scene,  where  pines  made 
a  friendly  back-ground,  there  were  added  oak,  ash, 
and  hickory  trees,  though  in  less  quantity  on  the  side 
of  the  river  where  were  Jean  Jacques  Barbille's  house 
and  mills.  They  flourished  chiefly  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Beau  Cheval,  whose  waters  flowed  so 
waywardly — now  with  a  rush,  now  silently  away 
through  long  reaches  of  country.  Here  the  land  was 
rugged  and  bold,  while  farther  on  it  became  gentle 
and  spacious,  and  was  flecked  or  striped  with  farms 

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The  Money  Master 


on  which  low,  white  houses  with  dormer-windows 
and  big  stoops  flashed  to  the  passer-by  the  message 
of  the  pioneer,  "It  is  mine.  I  triumph." 

At  the  Manor  Cartier,  not  far  from  the  town  of 
Vilray,  where  Jean  Jacques  was  master,  and  above  it 
and  below  it,  there  had  been  battles  and  the  ravages 
of  war.  At  the  time  of  the  Conquest  the  stubborn 
habitants,  refusing  to  accept  the  yielding  of  Quebec 
as  the  end  of  French  power  in  their  proud  province, 
had  remained  in  arms  and  active,  and  had  only 
yielded  when  the  musket  and  the  torch  had  done  their 
work,  and  smoking  ruins  marked  the  places  where 
homes  had  been.  They  took  their  fortune  with 
something  of  the  heroic  calm  of  men  to  whom  an  idea 
was  more  than  aught  else.  Jean  Jacques'  father, 
grandfather,  and  great-great-grandfather  had  lived 
here,  no  one  of  them  rising  far,  but  none  worthless  or 
unnoticeable.  They  all  had  had  "a  way  of  their 
own"  as  their  neighbours  said,  and  had  been  provi- 
dent on  the  whole.  Thus  it  was  that  when  Jean 
Jacques'  father  died,  and  he  came  into  his  own,  he 
found  himself  at  thirty  a  man  of  substance,  un- 
married, who  "could  have  had  the  pick  of  the 
province."  This  was  what  the  Old  Cur6  said  in 
despair,  when  Jean  Jacques  did  the  incomprehen- 
sible thing,  and  married  I'Espagnole,  or  "the  Span- 
ische,"  as  the  lady  was  always  called  in  the  English 
of  the  habitant. 

When  she  came  it  was  spring-time,  and  all  the 
world  was  budding,  exuding  joy  and  hope,  with  the 
sun  dancing  over  all.  It  was  the  time  between  the 
sowing  and  the  hay-time,  and  there  was  a  feeling 

4 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

of  alertness  in  everything  that  had  life,  while  even 
the  rocks  and  solid  earth  seemed  to  stir.  The  air 
was  filled  with  the  long  happy  drone  of  the  mill- 
stones as  they  ground  the  grain;  and  from  farther 
away  came  the  soft,  stinging  cry  of  a  saw-mill.  Its 
keen  buzzing  complaint  was  harmonious  with  the 
grumble  of  the  mill-stones,  as  though  a  supreme 
maker  of  music  had  tuned  it.  So  said  a  master- 
musician  and  his  friend,  a  philosopher  from  Nantes, 
who  came  to  St.  Saviour's  in  the  summer  just  before 
the  marriage,  and  lodged  with  Jean  Jacques. 

Jean  Jacques,  having  spent  a  year  at  Laval  Uni- 
versity at  Quebec,  had  almost  a  gift  of  thought,  or 
thinking;  and  he  never  ceased  to  ply  the  visiting 
philosopher  and  musician  with  questions  which  he 
proceeded  to  answer  himself  before  they  could  do 
so;  his  quaint,  sentimental,  meretricious  observa- 
tions on  life  saddening  while  they  amused  his  guests. 
They  saddened  the  musician  more  than  the  other 
because  he  knew  life,  while  the  philosopher  only 
thought  it  and  saw  it. 

But  even  the  musician  would  probably  have  smiled 
in  hope  that  day  when  the  young  "Spanische"  came 
driving  up  the  river-road  from  the  steamboat-land- 
ing miles  away.  She  arrived  just  when  the  clock 
struck  noon  in  the  big  living-room  of  the  Manor. 
As  she  reached  the  open  doorway  and  the  wide  win- 
dows of  the  house  which  gaped  with  shady  coolness, 
she  heard  the  bell  summoning  the  workers  in  the 
mills  and  on  the  farm — yes,  M.  Barbille  was  a  farm- 
er, too — for  the  welcome  home  to  "M'sieu*  Jean 
Jacques,"  as  he  was  called  by  everyone. 

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The  Money  Master 


That  the  wedding  had  taken  place  far  down  in 
Gasp6  and  not  in  St.  Saviour's  was  a  reproach  and 
almost  a  scandal;  and  certainly  it  was  unpatriotic. 
It  was  bad  enough  to  marry  the  Spanische,  but  to 
marry  outside  one's  own  parish,  and  so  deprive  that 
parish  and  its  young  people  of  the  week's  gaiety, 
which  a  wedding  and  the  consequent  procession  and 
tour  through  the  parish  brings,  was  little  less  than 
treason.  But  there  it  was;  and  Jean  Jacques  was 
a  man  who  had  power  to  hurt,  to  hinder,  or  to  help; 
for  the  miller  and  the  baker  are  nearer  to  the  hearth- 
stone of  every  man  than  any  other,  and  credit  is  a 
good  thing  when  the  oven  is  empty  and  hard  times 
are  abroad.  The  wedding  in  Gasp6  had  not  been  at- 
tended by  the  usual  functions,  for  it  had  all  been 
hurriedly  arranged,  as  the  romantic  circumstances 
of  the  wooing  required.  Romance  indeed  it  was; 
so  remarkable  that  the  master-musician  might  easily 
have  found  a  theme  for  a  comedy — or  tragedy — and 
the  philosopher  would  have  shaken  his  head  at  the 
defiance  it  offered  to  the  logic  of  things. 

Now  this  is  the  true  narrative,  though  in  the  parish 
of  St.  Saviour's  it  is  more  highly  decorated  and  has 
many  legends  hanging  to  it  like  tassels  to  a  curtain. 
Even  the  Cur6  of  to-day,  who  ought  to  know  all  the 
truth,  finds  it  hard  to  present  it  in  its  bare  elements; 
for  the  history  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille  affected  the 
history  of  many  a  man  in  St.  Saviour's;  and  all  that 
befel  him,  whether  of  good  or  evil,  ran  through  the 
parish  in  a  thousand  invisible  threads. 

What  had  happened  was  this.     After  the  visit  of 

6 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

the  musician  and  the  philosopher,  Jean  Jacques,  to 
sustain  his  reputation  and  to  increase  it,  had  de- 
cided to  visit  that  Normandy  from  which  his  people 
had  come  at  the  time  of  Frontenac.  He  set  forth 
with  much  6clat  and  a  little  innocent  posturing  and 
ritual,  in  which  a  cornet  and  a  violin  figured,  to- 
gether with  a  farewell  oration  by  the  Cure. 

In  Paris  Jean  Jacques  had  found  himself  bewil- 
dered and  engulfed.  He  had  no  idea  that  life  could 
be  so  overbearing,  and  he  was  inclined  to  resent  his 
own  insignificance.  However,  in  Normandy,  when 
he  read  the  names  on  the  tombstones  and  saw  the  rec- 
ords in  the  baptismal  register  of  other  Jean  Jacques 
Barbilles,  who  had  come  and  gone  generations  be- 
fore, his  self-respect  was  somewhat  restored.  This 
pleasure  was  dashed,  however,  by  the  quizzical  atti- 
tude of  the  natives  of  his  ancestral  parish,  who 
walked  round  about  inspecting  him  as  though  he 
were  a  zoological  specimen,  and  who  criticized  his 
accent — he  who  had  been  at  Laval  for  one  whole 
term;  who  had  had  special  instruction  before  that 
time  from  the  Old  Cure  and  a  Jesuit  brother;  and 
who  had  been  the  friend  of  musicians  and  philoso- 
phers ! 

His  cheerful,  kindly  self-assurance  stood  the  test 
with  difficulty,  but  it  became  a  kind  of  ceremonial 
with  him,  whenever  he  was  discomfited,  to  read  some 
pages  of  a  little  dun-coloured  book  of  philosophy, 
picked  up  on  the  quay  at  Quebec  just  before  he  sailed, 
and  called,  "Meditations  in  Philosophy."  He  had 
been  warned  by  the  bookseller  that  the  Church  had 
no  love  for  philosophy;  but  while  at  Laval  he  had 

7 


The  Money  Master 


met  the  independent  minds  that,  at  eighteen  to 
twenty-two,  frequent  academic  groves;  and  he  was 
not  to  be  put  off  by  the  pious  bookseller — had  he  not 
also  had  a  philosopher  in  his  house  the  year  before, 
and  was  he  not  going  to  Nantes  to  see  this  same 
savant  before  returning  to  his  beloved  St.  Saviour's 
parish ! 

But  Paris  and  Nantes  and  Rouen  and  Havre 
abashed  and  discomfited  him,  played  havoc  with  his 
self-esteem,  confused  his  brain,  and  vexed  him  by 
formality,  and,  more  than  all,  by  their  indifference 
to  himself.  He  admired,  yet  he  wished  to  be  ad- 
mired ;  he  was  humble,  but  he  wished  all  people  and 
things  to  be  humble  with  him.  When  he  halted  he 
wanted  the  world  to  halt;  when  he  entered  a  cathe- 
dral— Notre  Dame  or  any  other;  or  a  great  build- 
ing— the  Law  Courts  at  Rouen  or  any  other;  he 
simply  wanted  people  to  say,  wanted  the  cathedral, 
or  at  least  the  cloister,  to  whisper  to  itself,  "Here 
comes  Jean  Jacques  Barbille." 

That  was  all  he  wanted,  and  that  would  have 
sufficed.  He  would  not  have  had  them  whisper 
about  his  philosophy  and  his  intellect,  or  the  mills 
and  the  ash-factory  which  he  meant  to  build,  the 
lime-kilns  he  had  started  even  before  he  left,  and  the 
general  store  he  intended  to  open  when  he  returned 
to  St.  Saviour's.  Not  even  his  modesty  was  recog- 
nized; and  in  his  grand  tour  no  one  was  impressed 
by  all  that  he  was,  except  once.  An  ancestor,  a 
grandmother  of  his,  had  come  from  the  Basque 
country;  and  so  down  to  St.  Jean  Pied  de  Port  he 
went;  for  he  came  of  a  race  who  set  great  store  by 

8 


\\\:.    ADMIKKO,   YET    HE    WISHED    TO    BE    ADMIRED;    HE    SIMPLY 


.i          i ;/ 


jf 


Svv--.       .'."-  '  '"         -'   '  '      \''".       ~—~™' 

•^  -I 

ED    PEOPLE   TO    SAY,   "HERE   COMES   JEAN    JACQUES    BARBILLE " 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

mothers  and  grandmothers.  At  St.  Jean  Pied  de 
Port  he  was  more  at  home.  He  was,  in  a  sense,  a 
foreigner  among  foreigners  there,  and  the  people 
were  not  quizzical,  since  he  was  an  outsider  in  any 
case  and  not  a  native  returned,  as  he  had  been  in 
Normandy.  He  learned  to  play  pelota,  the  Basque 
game  taken  from  the  Spaniards,  and  he  even  al- 
lowed himself  a  little  of  that  oratory  which,  as  they 
say,  has  its  habitat  chiefly  in  Gascony.  And  because 
he  had  found  an  audience  at  last,  he  became  a  liberal 
host,  and  spent  freely  of  his  dollars,  as  he  had  never 
done  in  either  Normandy,  Paris,  or  elsewhere.  So 
freely  did  he  spend,  that  when  he  again  embarked  at 
Bordeaux  for  Quebec,  he  had  only  enough  cash  left 
to  see  him  through  the  remainder  of  his  journey 
in  the  great  world.  Yet  he  left  France  with  his  self- 
respect  restored,  and  he  even  waved  her  a  fond  adieu, 
as  the  creaking  Antoine  broke  heavily  into  the  waters 
of  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  while  he  cried: 

"My  little  ship, 

It  bears  me  far 

From  lights  of  home 

To  alien  star. 
O  merge  Marie, 
Pour  moi  priez  Dieul 

Adieu,  dear  land, 

Provence,  adieu." 

Then  a  further  wave  of  sentiment  swept  over  him, 
and  he  was  vaguely  conscious  of  a  desire  to  share 
the  pains  of  parting  which  he  saw  in  labour  around 
him — children  from  parents,  lovers  from  loved.  He 
could  not  imagine  the  parting  from  a  parent,  for 

9 


The  Money  Master 


both  of  his  were  in  the  bosom  of  heaven,  having 
followed  his  five  brothers,  all  of  whom  had  died  in 
infancy,  to  his  good  fortune,  for  otherwise  his  estate 
would  now  be  only  one-sixth  of  what  it  was.  But 
he  could  imagine  a  parting  with  some  sweet  daughter 
of  France,  and  he  added  another  verse  to  the  thrill- 
ing of  the  heart  of  Casimir  Delavigne: 

"Beloved  Isaure, 

Her  hand  makes  sign — 

No  more,  no  more, 

To  rest  in  mine. 
O  vicrge  Marie, 
Pour  moi  pHez  LHeut 

Adieu,  dear  land, 

Isaure,  adieu!" 

As  he  murmured  with  limpid  eye  the  last  words, 
he  saw  in  the  forecastle  not  far  from  him  a  girl  look- 
ing at  him.  There  was  unmistakable  sadness  in  her 
glance  of  interest.  In  truth  she  was  thinking  of 
just  such  a  man  as  Jean  Jacques,  whom  she  could 
never  see  any  more,  for  he  had  paid  with  his  life 
the  penalty  of  the  conspiracy  in  which  her  father, 
standing  now  behind  her  on  the  leaky  Antoine,  had 
been  a  tool,  and  an  evil  tool.  Here  in  Jean  Jacques 
was  the  same  ruddy  brown  face,  black  restless  eye, 
and  young,  silken  brown  beard.  Also  there  was  an 
air  of  certainty  and  universal  comprehension,  and 
though  assertion  and  vanity  were  apparent,  there 
was  no  self-consciousness.  The  girl's  dead  and  gone 
conspirator  had  not  the  same  honesty  of  face,  the 
same  curve  of  the  ideal  in  the  broad  forehead,  the 
same  poetry  of  rich  wavy  brown  hair,  the  same  good- 

10 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

ness  of  mind  and  body  so  characteristic  of  Jean 
Jacques — he  was  but  Jean  Jacques  gone  wrong  at  the 
start;  but  the  girl  was  of  a  nature  that  could  see 
little  difference  between  things  which  were  alike 
superficially,  and  in  the  young  provincial  she  only 
saw  one  who  looked  like  the  man  she  had  loved.  True, 
his  moustaches  did  not  curl  upwards  at  the  ends  as 
did  those  of  Carvillho  Gonzales,  and  he  did  not  look 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eyes  and  smoke  black  ciga- 
rettes; but  there  he  was,  her  Carvillho  with  a  dif- 
ference— only  such  a  difference  that  made  him  to  her 
Carvillho  II.,  and  not  the  ghost  of  Carvillho  I. 

She  was  a  maiden  who  might  have  been  as  good 
as  need  be  for  all  life,  so  far  as  appearances  went. 
She  had  a  wonderful  skin,  a  smooth,  velvety  cheek, 
where  faint  red  roses  came  and  went,  as  it  might 
seem  at  will;  with  a  deep  brown  eye;  and  eh,  but 
she  was  grandly  tall — so  Jean  Jacques  thought,  while 
he  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  five  feet,  six  and  a  half 
with  a  determined  air.  Even  at  his  best,  however, 
Jean  Jacques  could  not  reach  within  three  inches  of 
her  height. 

Yet  he  did  not  regard  her  as  at  all  overdone  be- 
cause of  that.  He  thought  her  hair  very  fine,  as  it 
waved  away  from  her  low  forehead  in  a  grace  which 
reminded  him  of  the  pictures  of  the  Empress  Eugenie, 
and  of  the  sister  of  that  monsieur  le  due  who  had 
come  fishing  to  St.  Saviour's  a  few  years  before. 
He  thought  that  if  her  hair  was  let  down  it  would 
probably  reach  to  her  waist,  and  maybe  to  her 
ankles.  She  had  none  of  the  plump,  mellow  softness 
of  the  beauties  he  had  seen  in  the  Basque  country. 

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The  Money  Master 


She  was  a  slim  and  long-limbed  Diana,  with  fine 
lines  and  a  bosom  of  extreme  youth,  though  she  must 
have  been  twenty-one  her  last  birthday.  The  gown 
she  wore  was  a  dark  green  well-worn  velvet,  which 
seemed  of  too  good  a  make  and  quality  for  her  class; 
and  there  was  no  decoration  about  her  anywhere, 
save  at  the  ears,  where  two  drops  of  gold  hung  on 
little  links  an  inch  and  a  half  long. 

Jean  Jacques  Barbille's  eyes  took  it  all  in  with 
that  observation  of  which  he  was  so  proud  and 
confident,  and  rested  finally  on  the  drops  of  gold 
at  her  ears.  Instinctively  he  fingered  the  heavy 
gold  watch-chain  he  had  bought  in  Paris  to  replace 
the  silver  chain  with  a  little  crucifix  dangling,  which 
his  father  and  even  his  great-grandfather  had  worn 
before  him.  He  had  kept  the  watch,  however — 
the  great  fat-bellied  thing  which  had  never  run 
down  in  a  hundred  years.  It  was  his  mascot. 
To  lose  that  watch  would  be  like  losing  his  share 
in  the  promises  of  the  Church.  So  his  fingers  ran 
along  the  new  gold — fourteen-carat — chain,  to  the 
watch  at  the  end  of  it;  and  he  took  it  out  a  little 
ostentatiously,  since  he  saw  that  the  eyes  of  the  girl 
were  on  him.  Involuntarily  he  wished  to  impress 
her. 

He  might  have  saved  himself  the  trouble.  She 
was  impressed.  It  was  quite  another  matter, 
however,  whether  he  would  have  been  pleased  to 
know  that  the  impression  was  due  to  his  resemblance 
to  a  Spanish  conspirator,  whose  object  was  to  destroy 
the  Monarchy  and  the  Church,  as  had  been  the 
object  of  the  middle-aged  conspirator — the  girl's 

12 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

father — who  had  the  good  fortune  to  escape  from 
justice.  It  is  probable  that  if  Jean  Jacques  had 
known  these  facts,  his  story  would  never  have  been 
written,  and  he  would  have  died  in  course  of  time 
with  twenty  children  and  a  seat  in  the  legislature; 
for,  in  spite  of  his  ardent  devotion  to  philosophy  and 
its  accompanying  rationalism,  he  was  a  devout 
monarchist  and  a  child  of  the  Church. 

Sad  enough  it  was  that,  as  he  shifted  his  glance 
from  the  watch,  which  ticked  loud  enough  to  wake 
a  farm-hand  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  he  found  those 
Spanish  eyes  which  had  been  so  lost  in  studying  him. 
In  the  glow  and  glisten  of  the  evening  sun  setting 
on  the  shores  of  Bordeaux,  and  flashing  reflected 
golden  light  to  the  girl's  face,  he  saw  that  they  were 
shining  with  tears,  and  though  looking  at  him,  ap- 
peared not  to  see  him.  In  that  moment  the  scrutiny 
of  the  little  man's  mind  was  volatilized,  and  the 
Spanische,  as  she  was  ultimately  called,  began  her 
career  in  the  life  of  the  money-master  of  St.  Saviour's. 

It  began  by  his  immediately  resenting  the  fact 
that  she  should  be  travelling  in  the  forecastle.  His 
mind  imagined  misfortune  and  a  lost  home  through 
political  troubles,  for  he  quickly  came  to  know  that 
the  girl  and  her  father  were  Spanish;  and  to  him, 
Spain  was  a  place  of  martyrs  and  criminals.  Crim- 
inals these  could  not  be — one  had  but  to  look  at  the 
girl's  face ;  while  the  face  of  her  worthless  father  might 
have  been  that  of  a  friend  of  Philip  IV.  in  the  Escorial, 
so  quiet  and  oppressed  it  seemed.  Nobility  was 
written  on  the  placid,  apathetic  countenance,  except 
when  it  was  not  under  observation,  and  then  the 

13 


The  Money  Master 


look  of  Cain  took  its  place.  Jean  Jacques,  however, 
was  not  likely  to  see  that  look;  since  Sebastian 
Dolores — that  was  his  name — had  observed  from 
the  first  how  the  master-miller  was  impressed  by 
his  daughter,  and  he  was  set  to  turn  it  to  account. 

Not  that  the  father  entered  into  an  understand- 
ing with  the  girl.  He  knew  her  too  well  for  that. 
He  had  a  wholesome  respect,  not  to  say  fear,  of  her; 
for  when  all  else  had  failed,  it  was  she  who  had  ar- 
ranged his  escape  from  Spain,  and  who  almost  saved 
Carvillho  Gonzales  from  being  shot.  She  could  have 
sared  Gonzales,  might  have  saved  him,  would  have 
saved  him,  had  she  not  been  obliged  to  save  her 
father.  In  the  circumstances  she  could  not  save 
both. 

Before  the  week  was  out  Jean  Jacques  was  pos- 
sessed of  as  fine  a  tale  of  political  persecution  as 
mind  could  conceive,  and,  told  as  it  was  by  Sebastian 
Dolores,  his  daughter  did  not  seek  to  alter  it,  for 
she  had  her  own  purposes,  and  they  were  mixed. 
These  refugees  needed  a  friend,  for  they  would  land 
in  Canada  with  only  a  few  dollars,  and  Carmen 
Dolores  loved  her  father  well  enough  not  to  wish 
to  see  him  again  in  such  distress  as  he  had  endured 
in  Cadiz.  Also,  Jean  Jacques,  the  young,  verdant, 
impressionable  French  Catholic,  was  like  her  Car- 
villho Gonzales,  and  she  had  loved  her  Carvillho  in 
her  own  way  very  passionately,  and — this  much  to 
her  credit — quite  chastely.  So  that  she  had  no  com- 
punction in  drawing  the  young  money-master  to  her 
side,  and  keeping  him  there  by  such  arts  as  such  a 
woman  possesses.  These  are  remarkable  after  their 

14 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

kind.  They  are  combined  of  a  frankness  as  to  the 
emotions,  and  such  outer  concessions  to  physical 
sensations,  as  make  a  painful  combination  against  a 
mere  man's  caution;  even  when  that  caution  has  a 
Norman  origin. 

More  than  once  Jean  Jacques  was  moved  to  tears, 
as  the  Ananias  of  Cadiz  told  his  stories  of  persecu- 
tion. So  that  one  day,  in  sudden  generosity,  he  paid 
the  captain  the  necessary  sum  to  transfer  the  ref- 
ugees from  the  forecastle  to  his  own  select  portion 
of  the  steamer,  where  he  was  so  conspicuous  a  figure 
among  a  handful  of  lower-level  merchant  folk  and 
others  of  little  mark  who  were  going  to  Quebec. 
To  these  latter  Jean  Jacques  was  a  gift  of  heaven, 
for  he  knew  so  much,  and  seemed  to  know  so  much 
more,  and  could  give  them  the  information  they  de- 
sired. His  importance  lured  him  to  pose  as  a  seig- 
neur, though  he  had  no  claim  to  the  title.  He  did 
not  call  himself  Seigneur  in  so  many  words,  but 
when  others  referred  to  him  as  the  Seigneur,  and  it 
came  to  his  ears,  he  did  not  correct  it ;  and  when  he 
was  addressed  as  such  he  did  not  reprove. 

Thus,  when  he  brought  the  two  refugees  from  the 
forecastle  and  assured  his  fellow-passengers  that  they 
were  Spanish  folk  of  good  family  exiled  by  persecu- 
tion, his  generosity  was  acclaimed,  even  while  all 
saw  he  was  enamoured  of  Carmen.  Once  among  the 
first-class  passengers,  father  and  daughter  main- 
tained reserve,  and  though  there  were  a  few  who 
saw  that  they  were  not  very  far  removed  above 
peasants,  still  the  dress  of  the  girl,  which  was  good 
—she  had  been  a  maid  in  a  great  nobleman's  family 

is 


The  Money  Master 


—was  evidence  in  favour  of  the  father's  story. 
Sebastian  Dolores  explained  his  own  workman's 
dress  as  having  been  necessary  for  his  escape. 

Only  one  person  gave  Jean  Jacques  any  warning. 
This  was  the  captain  of  the  Antoine.  He  was  a 
Basque,  he  knew  the  Spanish  people  well — the  types, 
the  character,  the  idiosyncrasies;  and  he  was  sure 
that  Sebastian  Dolores  and  his  daughter  belonged  to 
the  lower  clerical  or  higher  working  class,  and  he 
greatly  inclined  towards  the  former.  In  that  he  was 
right,  because  Dolores,  and  his  father  before  him, 
had  been  employed  in  the  office  of  a  great  com- 
mercial firm  in  Cadiz,  and  had  repaid  much  con- 
sideration by  stirring  up  strife  and  disloyalty  in  the 
establishment.  But  before  the  anarchist  subtracted 
himself  from  his  occupation,  he  had  appropriated 
certain  sums  of  money,  and  these  had  helped  to 
carry  him  on,  when  he  attached  himself  to  the  revo- 
lutionaries. It  was  on  his  daughter's  savings  that 
he  was  now  travelling,  with  the  only  thing  he  had 
saved  from  the  downfall,  which  was  his  head.  It 
was  of  sufficient  personal  value  to  make  him  quite 
cheerful  as  the  Antoine  plunged  and  shivered  on  her 
way  to  the  country  where  he  could  have  no  steady 
work  as  a  revolutionist. 

With  reserve  and  caution  the  Basque  captain  felt 
it  his  duty  to  tell  Jean  Jacques  of  his  suspicions, 
warning  him  that  the  Spaniards  were  the  choicest 
liars  in  the  world,  and  were  not  ashamed  of  it;  but 
had  the  same  pride  in  it  as  had  their  greatest  rivals, 
the  Arabs  and  the  Egyptians. 

His  discreet  confidences,  however,  were  of  no  avail ; 

16 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

he  was  not  discreet  enough.  If  he  had  challenged 
the  bona  fides  of  Sebastian  Dolores  only,  he  might 
have  been  convincing,  but  he  used  the  word  "they" 
constantly,  and  that  roused  the  chivalry  of  Jean 
Jacques.  That  the  comely,  careful  Carmen  should 
be  party  to  an  imposture  was  intolerable.  Every- 
thing about  her  gave  it  the  lie.  Her  body  was  so 
perfect  and  complete,  so  finely  contrived  and  bal- 
anced, so  cunningly  curved  with  every  line  filled 
in ;  her  eye  was  so  full  of  lustre  and  half -melancholy 
too ;  her  voice  had  such  a  melodious  monotone ;  her 
mouth  was  so  ripe  and  yet  so  distant  in  its  luxury, 
that  imposture  was  out  of  the  question. 

Ah,  but  Jean  Jacques  was  a  champion  worth 
while!  He  did  nothing  by  halves.  He  was  of  the 
breed  of  men  who  grow  more  intense,  more  con- 
vinced, more  thorough,  as  they  talk.  One  adjective 
begets  another,  one  warm  allusion  gives  birth  to  a 
warmer,  one  flashing  impulse  evokes  a  brighter  con- 
fidence, till  the  atmosphere  is  flaming  with  con- 
viction. If  Jean  Jacques  started  with  faint  doubt 
regarding  anything,  and  allowed  himself  betimes 
the  flush  of  a  declaration  of  belief,  there  could  be 
but  one  end.  He  gathered  fire  as  he  moved,  im- 
pulse expanded  into  momentum,  and  momentum 
became  an  Ariel  fleeing  before  the  dark.  He  would 
start  by  offering  a  finger  to  be  pricked,  and  would 
end  by  presenting  his  own  head  on  a  charger.  He 
was  of  those  who  hypnotize  themselves,  who  glow 
with  self -creation,  who  flower  and  bloom  without 
pollen. 

His  rejection  of  the  captain's  confidence  even  had  a 
2  17 


The  Money  Master 


dignity.  He  took  out  his  watch  which  represented 
so  many  laborious  hours  of  other  Barbilles,  and 
with  a  decision  in  which  the  strong  pulse  of  chivalry 
was  beating  hard,  he  said : 

"I  can  never  speak  well  till  I  have  ate.  That  is 
my  hobby.  Well,  so  it  is.  And  I  like  good  company. 
So  that  is  why  I  sit  beside  Senor  and  Senorita  Do- 
lores at  table — the  one  on  the  right,  the  other  on 
the  left,  myself  between,  like  this,  like  that.  It 
is  dinner-time  now  here,  and  my  friends — my  dear 
friends  of  Cadiz — they  wait  me.  Have  you  heard 
the  Senorita  sing  the  song  of  Spain,  m'sieu'?  What 
it  must  be  with  the  guitar,  I  know  not;  but  with 
voice  alone  it  is  ravishing.  I  have  learned  it  also. 
The  Senorita  has  taught  me.  It  is  a  song  of  Aragon. 
It  is  sung  in  high  places.  It  belongs  to  the  nobility. 
Ah,  then,  you  have  not  heard  it — but  it  is  not  too 
late!  The  Senorita,  the  unhappy  ma'm'selle,  driven 
from  her  ancestral  home  by  persecution,  she  will 
sing  it  to  you  as  she  has  sung  it  to  me.  It  is  your 
due.  You  are  the  master  of  the  ship.  But,  yes, 
she  shall  of  her  kindness  and  of  her  grace  sing  it  to 
you.  You  do  not  know  how  it  runs?  Well,  it  is 
like  this — listen  and  tell  me  if  it  does  not  speak  of 
things  that  belong  to  the  old  regime,  the  ancient 
noblesse — listen,  m'sieu'  le  capitaine,  how  it  runs: 

"Have  you  not  heard  of  mad  Murcie? 
Granada  gay  and  And'lousie? 
There's  where  you'll  see  the  joyous  rout, 
When  patios  pour  their  beauties  out; 
Come,  children,  come,  the  night  gains  fast, 
And  Time's  a  jade  too  fair  to  last. 
18 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

"My  flower  of  Spain,  my  Juanetta, 
Away,  away  to  gay  Jota! 
Come  forth,  my  sweet,  away,  my  queen, 
Though  daybreak  scorns,  the  night's  between. 
The  Pete's  afoot— ah!  ah!  aht  ah! 
De  la  Jota  Ar'gone"sa. 
Ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
De  la  Jota  Ar'gone"sa," 

Before  he  had  finished,  the  captain  was  more  than 
ready  to  go,  for  he  had  no  patience  with  such 
credulity,  simplicity  and  sentimentalism.  He  was 
Basque,  and  to  be  Basque  is  to  lack  sentiment  and 
feel  none,  to  play  ever  for  the  safe  thing,  to  get  with- 
out giving,  and  to  mind  your  own  business.  It 
had  only  been  an  excessive  sense  of  duty  which  had 
made  the  captain  move  in  this,  for  he  liked  Jean 
Jacques  as  everyone  aboard  his  Antoine  did;  and 
he  was  convinced  that  the  Spaniards  would  play 
the  "Seigneur"  to  the  brink  of  disaster  at  least, 
though  it  would  have  been  hard  to  detect  any  ele- 
ment of  intrigue  or  coquetry  in  Carmen  Dolores. 

That  was  due  partly  to  the  fact  that  she  was  still 
in  grief  for  her  Gonzales,  whose  heart  had  been 
perforated  by  almost  as  many  bullets  as  the  arrows 
of  Cupid  had  perforated  it  in  his  short,  gay  life  of 
adventure  and  anarchy;  also  partly  because  there 
was  no  coquetry  needed  to  interest  Jean  Jacques. 
If  he  was  interested  it  was  not  necessary  to  interest 
anyone  else,  nor  was  it  expedient  to  do  so,  for  the 
biggest  fish  in  the  net  on  the  Antoine  was  the  money- 
master  of  St.  Saviour's. 

Carmen  had  made  up  her  mind  from  the  first  to 
marry  Jean  Jacques,  and  she  deported  herself  ac- 

19 


The  Money  Master 


cordingly — with  modesty,  circumspection  and  skill. 
It  would  be  the  easiest  way  out  of  all  their  diffi- 
culties. Since  her  heart,  such  as  it  was,  fluttered, 
a  mournful  ghost,  over  the  Place  d'Armes,  where  her 
Gonzales  was  shot,  it  might  better  go  to  Jean  Jacques 
than  anyone  else;  for  he  was  a  man  of  parts,  of 
money,  and  of  looks,  and  she  loved  these  all;  and 
to  her  credit  she  loved  his  looks  better  than  all  the 
rest.  She  had  no  real  cupidity,  and  she  was  not 
greatly  enamoured  of  brains.  She  had  some  real 
philosophy  of  life  learned  in  a  hard  school;  and  it 
was  infinitely  better  founded  than  the  smattering  of 
conventional  philosophy  got  by  Jean  Jacques  from 
his  compendium  picked  up  on  the  quay  at  Quebec. 
Yet  Jean  Jacques'  cruiser  of  life  was  not  wholly 
unarmed.  From  his  Norman  forebears  he  had,  be- 
neath all,  a  shrewdness  and  an  elementary  alertness 
not  submerged  by  his  vain,  kind  nature.  He  was 
quite  a  good  business  man,  and  had  proved  himself 
so  before  his  father  died — very  quick  to  see  a  chance, 
and  even  quicker  to  see  where  the  distant,  sharp 
corners  in  the  road  were ;  though  not  so  quick  to  see 
the  pitfalls,  for  his  head  was  ever  in  the  air.  And 
here  on  the  Antoine,  there  crossed  his  mind  often 
the  vision  of  Carmen  Dolores  and  himself  in  the 
parish  of  St.  Saviour's,  with  the  daily  life  of  the 
Beau  Cheval  revolving  about  him.  Flashes  of  dan- 
ger warned  him  now  and  then,  just  at  the  beginning 
of  the  journey,  as  it  were;  just  before  he  had  found 
it  necessary  to  become  her  champion  against  the 
captain  and  his  calumnies;  but  they  were  of  the 
instant  only.  But  champion  as  he  became,  and 

20 


Grand  tour  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 

worshipping  as  his  manner  seemed,  it  all  might  easily 
have  been  put  down  to  a  warm,  chivalrous,  and 
spontaneous  nature,  which  had  not  been  bitted  or 
bridled,  and  he  might  have  landed  at  Quebec  with- 
out committing  himself,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that 
he  was  not  to  land  at  Quebec. 

That  was  the  fact  which  controlled  his  destiny. 
He  had  spent  many,  many  hours  with  the  Dona 
Dolores,  talking,  talking,  as  he  loved  to  talk,  and 
only  saving  himself  from  the  betise  of  boring  her  by 
the  fact  that  his  enthusiasm  had  in  it  so  fresh  a 
quality,  and  because  he  was  so  like  her  Gonzales 
that  she  could  always  endure  him.  Besides,  quick 
of  intelligence  as  she  was,  she  was  by  nature  more 
material  than  she  looked,  and  there  was  certainly 
something  physically  attractive  in  him — some  curi- 
ous magnetism.  She  had  a  well  of  sensuousness 
which  might  one  day  become  sensuality;  she  had  a 
richness  of  feeling  and  a  contour  in  harmony  with 
it,  which  might  expand  into  voluptuousness,  if 
given  too  much  sun,  or  if  untamed  by  the  normal 
restraints  of  a  happy  married  life.  There  was  an 
earthquake  zone  in  her  being  which  might  shake 
down  the  whole  structure  of  her  existence.  She  was 
unsafe,  not  because  she  was  deceiving  Jean  Jacques 
now  as  to  her  origin  and  as  to  her  feelings  for  him; 
she  was  unsafe  because  of  the  natural  strain  of  the 
light  of  love  in  her,  joined  to  a  passion  for  comfort 
and  warmth  and  to  a  natural  self-indulgence.  She 
was  determined  to  make  Jean  Jacques  offer  himself 
before  they  landed  at  Quebec. 

But  they  did  not  land  at  Quebec. 


CHAPTER  II 

"THE  REST  OF  THE  STORY  TO-MORROW" 

'"PHE  journey  wore  on  to  the  coast  of  Canada. 
A  Gasp6  was  not  far  off  when,  still  held  back  by 
the  constitutional  tendency  of  the  Norman  not  to 
close  a  bargain  till  compelled  to  do  so,  Jean  Jacques 
sat  with  Carmen  far  forward  on  the  deck,  where  the 
groaning  Antoine  broke  the  waters  into  sullen  foam. 
There  they  silently  watched  the  sunset,  golden,  pur- 
ple and  splendid — and  ominous,  as  the  captain  knew. 

"Look,  the  end  of  life  —  like  thatl"  said  Jean 
Jacques  oratorically  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  to- 
wards the  prismatic  radiance. 

"All  the  way  round,  the  whole  circle — no,  it  would 
be  too  much,"  Carmen  replied  sadly.  "Better  to  go 
at  noon — or  soon  after.  Then  the  only  memory  of 
life  would  be  of  the  gallop.  No  crawling  into  the 
night  for  me,  if  I  can  help  it.  Mother  of  Heaven, 
no!  Let  me  go  at  the  top  of  the  flight." 

"It  is  all  the  same  to  me,"  responded  Jean 
Jacques,  "I  want  to  know  it  all — to  gallop,  to  trot, 
to  walk,  to  crawl.  Me,  I'm  a  philosopher.  I  wait." 

"But  I  thought  you  were  a  Catholic,"  she  replied, 
with  a  kindly,  lurking  smile,  which  might  easily  have 
hardened  into  scoffing. 

22 


"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow" 

"First  and  last,"  he  answered  firmly. 

"A  Catholic  and  a  philosopher — together  in  one?" 
She  shrugged  a  shoulder  to  incite  him  to  argument, 
for  he  was  interesting  when  excited;  when  spurting 
out  little  geysers  of  other  people's  cheap  wisdom  and 
philosophy,  poured  through  the  kind  distortion  of  his 
own  intelligence. 

He  gave  a  toss  of  his  head.  "Ah,  that  is  my  hobby 
— I  reconcile,  I  unite,  I  adapt!  It  is  all  the  nature 
of  the  mind,  the  far-look,  the  all-round  sight  of  the 
man.  I  have  it  all.  I  see." 

He  gazed  eloquently  into  the  sunset,  he  swept  the 
horizon  with  his  hand.  "I  have  the  all-round  look. 
I  say  the  Man  of  Calvary,  He  is  before  all,  the  sun; 
but  I  say  Socrates,  Plato,  Jean  Jacques — that  is  my 
name,  and  it  is  not  for  nothing,  that — Jean  Jacques 
Rousseau,  Descartes,  Locke,  they  are  stars  that  go 
round  the  sun.  It  is  the  same  light,  but  not  the  same 
sound.  I  reconcile.  In  me  all  comes  together  like 
the  spokes  to  the  hub  of  a  wheel.  Me — I  am  a 
Christian,  I  am  philosophe,  also.  In  St.  Saviour's,  my 
home  in  Quebec,  if  the  crops  are  good,  what  do  men 
say?  'C'est  le  bon  Dieu — it  is  the  good  God,'  that  is 
what  they  say.  If  the  crops  are  bad,  what  do  they 
say?  'It  is  the  good  God,' — that  is  what  they  say. 
It  is  the  good  God  that  makes  crops  good  or  bad, 
and  it  is  the  good  God  that  makes  men  say,  'C'est 
le  bon  Dieu.'  The  good  God  makes  the  philosophy. 
It  is  all  one." 

She  appeared  to  grow  agitated,  and  her  voice 
shook  as  she  spoke.  "Tsh,  it  is  only  a  fool  that  says 
the  good  God  does  it,  when  the  thing  that  is  done 

23 


The  Money  Master 


breaks  you  or  that  which  you  love  all  to  pieces. 
No,  no,  no,  it  is  not  religion,  it  is  not  philosophy  that 
makes  one  raise  the  head  when  the  heart  is  bowed 
down,  when  everything  is  snatched  away  that  was 
all  in  all.  That  the  good  God  does  it  is  a  lie.  Santa 
Maria,  what  a  lie!" 

"Why  'Santa  Maria,'  then,  if  it  is  a  lie?"  he  asked 
triumphantly.  He  did  not  observe  how  her  breast 
was  heaving,  how  her  hands  were  clenched;  for  she 
was  really  busy  with  thoughts  of  her  dead  Carvillho 
Gonzales ;  but  for  the  moment  he  could  only  see  the 
point  of  an  argument. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "So — that's  it. 
Habit  in  us  is  so  strong.  It  comes  through  the  veins 
of  our  mothers  to  us.  We  say  that  God  is  a  lie  one 
minute,  and  then  the  next  minute  we  say,  '  God  guard 
you!'  Always — always  calling  to  something,  for 
something  outside  ourselves.  That  is  why  I  said 
Santa  Maria,  why  I  ask  her  to  pray  for  the  soul  of 
my  friend,  to  pray  to  the  God  that  breaks  me  and 
mine,  and  sends  us  over  the  seas,  beggars  without  a 
home." 

Now  she  had  him  back  out  of  the  vanities  of  his 
philosophy.  He  was  up,  inflamed,  looking  at  her 
with  an  excitement  on  which  she  depended  for  her 
future.  She  knew  the  caution  of  his  nature,  she 
realized  how  he  would  take  one  step  forward  and 
another  step  back,  and  maybe  get  nowhere  in  the 
end;  and  she  wanted  him — for  a  home,  for  her  fath- 
er's sake,  for  what  he  could  do  for  them  both.  She 
had  no  compunctions.  She  thought  herself  too  good 
for  him,  in  a  way,  for  in  her  day  men  of  place  and 


"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow" 

mark  had  taken  notice  of  her;  and  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her  Gonzales  she  would  no  doubt  have 
listened  to  one  of  them  sometime  or  another.  She 
knew  she  had  ability,  even  though  she  was  indolent, 
and  she  thought  she  could  do  as  much  for  him  as 
any  other  girl.  If  she  gave  him  a  handsome  wife 
and  handsome  children,  and  made  men  envious  of 
him,  and  filled  him  with  good  things, — for  she  could 
cook  more  than  tortillas — she  felt  he  would  have  no 
right  to  complain.  She  meant  him  to  marry  her — 
and  Quebec  was  very  near! 

"A  beggar  in  a  strange  land,  without  a  home, 
without  a  friend — oh,  my  broken  life!"  she  whis- 
pered wistfully  to  the  sunset. 

It  was  not  all  acting,  for  the  past  reached  out  and 
swept  over  her,  throwing  waves  of  its  troubles  upon 
the  future.  She  was  that  saddest  of  human  beings, 
a  victim  of  dual  forces  which  so  fought  for  mastery 
with  each  other  that,  while  the  struggle  went  on, 
the  soul  had  no  firm  foothold  anywhere.  That, 
indeed,  was  why  her  Carvillho  Gonzales,  who  also 
had  been  dual  in  nature,  said  to  himself  so  often, 
"I  am  a  devil,"  and  nearly  as  often,  "I  have  the 
heart  of  an  angel." 

"Tell  me  all  about  your  life,  my  friend,"  Jean 
Jacques  said  eagerly.  Now  his  eyes  no  longer  hur- 
ried here  and  there,  but  fastened  on  hers  and  stayed 
thereabouts — ah,  her  face  surely  was  like  pictures  he 
had  seen  in  the  Louvre  that  day  when  he  had  ambled 
through  the  aisles  of  great  men's  glories  with  the 
feeling  that  he  could  not  see  too  much  for  nothing 
in  an  hour. 

25 


The  Money  Master 


"My  life?  Ah,  m'sieu',  has  not  my  father  told  you 
of  it?"  she  asked. 

He  waved  a  hand  in  explanation,  he  cocked  his 
head  quizzically.  "Scraps — like  the  buttons  on  a 
coat  here  and  there — that's  all,"  he  answered. 
1 '  Born  in  Andalusia,  lived  in  Cadiz,  plenty  of  money, 
a  beautiful  home," — Carmen's  eyes  drooped,  and 
her  face  flushed  slightly — "no  brothers  or  sisters- 
visits  to  Madrid  on  political  business — you  at  school 
— then  the  going  of  your  mother,  and  you  at  home 
at  the  head  of  the  house.  So  much  on  the  young 
shoulders,  the  kitchen,  the  parlour,  the  market,  the 
shop,  society — and  so  on.  That  is  the  way  it  was, 
so  he  said,  except  in  the  last  sad  times,  when  your 
father,  for  the  sake  of  Don  Carlos  and  his  rights 
near  lost  his  life — ah,  I  can  understand  that:  to 
stand  by  the  thing  you  have  sworn  to!  France  is  a 
republic,  but  I  would  give  my  life  to  put  a  Napoleon 
or  a  Bourbon  on  the  throne.  It  is  my  hobby  to 
stand  by  the  old  ship,  not  sign  on  to  a  new  captain 
every  port." 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him  calmly  now. 
The  flush  had  gone  from  her  face,  and  a  light  of 
determination  was  in  her  eyes.  To  that  was  added 
suddenly  a  certain  tinge  of  recklessness  and  abandon 
in  carriage  and  manner,  as  one  flings  the  body  loose 
from  the  restraints  of  clothes,  and  it  expands  in  a 
free,  careless,  defiant  joy. 

Jean  Jacques'  recital  of  her  father's  tale  had  con- 
fused her  for  a  moment,  it  was  so  true  yet  so  untrue, 
so  full  of  lies  and  yet  so  solid  in  fact.  "The  head  of 
the  house — visits  to  Madrid  on  political  business — 

26 


"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow" 

the  parlour,  the  market,  society — all  that!"  It  sug- 
gested the  picture  of  the  life  of  a  child  of  a  great 
house;  it  made  her  a  lady,  and  not  a  superior  ser- 
vant as  she  had  been;  it  adorned  her  with  a  credit 
which  was  not  hers;  and  for  a  moment  she  was 
ashamed.  Yet  from  the  first  she  had  lent  herself  to 
the  general  imposture  that  they  had  fled  from  Spain 
for  political  reasons,  having  lost  all  and  suffered 
greatly;  and  it  was  true  while  yet  it  was  a  lie.  She 
had  suffered,  both  her  father  and  herself  had  suf- 
fered; she  had  been  in  danger,  in  agony,  in  sorrow, 
in  despair — it  was  only  untrue  that  they  were  of 
good  birth  and  blood,  and  had  had  position  and 
comfort  and  much  money.  Well,  what  harm  did  that 
do  anybody  ?  What  harm  did  it  do  this  little  brown 
seigneur  from  Quebec?  Perhaps  he  too  had  made 
himself  out  to  be  more  than  he  was.  Perhaps  he  was 
no  seigneur  at  all,  she  thought.  When  one  is  in 
distant  seas  and  in  danger  of  his  life,  one  will  hoist 
any  flag,  sail  to  any  port,  pay  homage  to  any  king. 
So  would  she.  Anyhow,  she  was  as  good  as  this 
provincial,  with  his  ancient  silver  watch,  his  plump 
little  hands,  and  his  book  of  philosophy. 

What  did  it  matter,  so  all  came  right  in  the  end! 
She  would  justify  herself,  if  she  had  the  chance.  She 
was  sick  of  conspiracy,  and  danger,  and  chicanery — 
and  blood.  She  wanted  her  chance.  She  had  been 
badly  shaken  in  the  last  days  in  Spain,  and  she  shrank 
from  more  worry  and  misery.  She  wanted  to  have  a 
home  and  not  to  wander.  And  here  was  a  chance — 
how  good  a  chance  she  was  not  sure;  but  it  was  a 
chance.  She  would  not  hesitate  to  make  it  hers. 

27 


The  Money  Master 


After  all,  self-preservation  was  the  thing  which  mat- 
tered. She  wanted  a  bright  fire,  a  good  table,  a 
horse,  a  cow,  and  all  such  simple  things.  She  wanted 
a  roof  over  her  and  a  warm  bed  at  night.  She  wanted 
a  warm  bed  at  night — but  a  warm  bed  at  night 
alone.  It  was  the  price  she  would  have  to  pay  for 
her  imposture,  that  if  she  had  all  these  things,  she 
could  not  be  alone  in  the  sleep- time.  She  had  not 
thought  of  this  in  the  days  when  she  looked  forward 
to  a  home  with  her  Gonzales.  To  be  near  him  was 
everything;  but  that  was  all  dead  and  done  for; 
and  now — it  was  at  this  point  that,  shrinking,  she 
suddenly  threw  off  all  restraining  thoughts.  With 
abandon  of  the  mind  came  a  recklessness  of  body, 
which  gave  her,  all  at  once,  a  voluptuousness  more 
in  keeping  with  the  typical  maid  of  Andalusia.  It 
got  into  the  eyes  and  senses  of  Jean  Jacques,  in  a 
way  which  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  philosophy  of 
Descartes,  or  Kant,  or  Aristotle,  or  Hegel. 

"It  was  beautiful  in  much — my  childhood,"  she 
said  in  a  low  voice,  dropping  her  eyes  before  his 
ardent  gaze,  "as  my  father  said.  My  mother  was 
lovely  to  see,  but  not  bigger  than  I  was  at  twelve — 
so  petite,  and  yet  so  perfect  in  form — like  a  lark  or  a 
canary.  Yes,  and  she  could  sing — anything.  Not 
like  me  with  a  voice  which  has  the  note  of  a  drum 
or  an  organ " 

"Of  a  flute,  bright  Senorita,"  interposed  Jean 
Jacques. 

"But  high,  and  with  the  trills  in  the  skies,  and  all 
like  a  laugh  with  a  tear  in  it.  When  she  went  to  the 

river  to  wash " 

28 


"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow" 

She  was  going  to  say  "wash  the  clothes,"  but  she 
stopped  in  time  and  said  instead,  "wash  her  spaniel 
and  her  pony" — her  face  was  flushed  again  with 
shame,  for  to  lie  about  one's  mother  is  a  sickening 
thing,  and  her  mother  never  had  a  spaniel  or  a 
pony — "the  women  on  the  shore  wringing  their 
clothes,  used  to  beg  her  to  sing.  To  the  hum  of 
the  river  she  would  make  the  music  which  they 
loved " 

"La  Manola  and  such?"  interjected  Jean  Jacques 
eagerly.  "That's  a  fine  song  as  you  sing  it." 

"Not  La  Manola,  but  others  of  a  different  sort — 
The  Love  of  Isabella,  The  Flight  of  Bobadil,  Saragosse, 
My  Little  Banderillero,  and  so  on,  and  all  so  sweet 
that  the  women  used  to  cry.  Always,  always  she 
was  singing  till  the  time  when  my  father  became 
a  rebel.  Then  she  used  to  cry  too;  and  she  would 
sing  no  more;  and  when  my  father  was  put  against 
a  wall  to  be  shot,  and  fell  in  the  dust  when  the  rifles 
rang  out,  she  came  at  the  moment,  and  seeing  him 
lying  there,  she  threw  up  her  hands,  and  fell  down 
beside  him  dead " 

"The  poor  little  senora,  dead  too " 

"Not  dead  too — that  was  the  pity  of  it.  You  see 
my  father  was  not  dead.  The  officer" — she  did 
not  say  sergeant — "who  commanded  the  firing  squad, 
he  was  what  is  called  a  compadre  of  my  father " 

"Yes,  I  understand — a  made-brother,  sealed  with 
an  oath,  which  binds  closer  than  a  blood-brother. 
It  is  that,  is  it  not?" 

"So  —  like  that.  Well,  the  compadre  had  put 
blank  "cartridges  in  their  rifles,  and  my  father  pre- 
29 


The  Money  Master 


tended  to  fall  dead;  and  the  soldiers  were  marched 
away;  and  my  father,  with  my  mother,  was  carried 
to  his  home,  still  pretending  to  be  dead.  It  had  been 
all  arranged  except  the  awful  thing,  my  mother's 
death.  Who  could  foresee  that?  She  ought  to  have 
been  told;  but  who  could  guess  that  she  would 
hear  of  it  all,  and  come  at  the  moment  like  that? 
So,  that  was  the  way  she  went,  and  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  father." 

She  had  told  the  truth  in  all,  except  in  conveying 
that  her  mother  was  not  of  the  lower  orders,  and 
that  she  went  to  the  river  to  wash  her  spaniel  and 
her  pony  instead  of  her  clothes. 

"Your  father — did  they  not  arrest  him  again? 
Did  they  not  know?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "That  is  not  the 
way  in  Spain.  He  was  shot,  as  the  orders  were, 
with  his  back  to  the  wall  by  a  squad  of  soldiers  with 
regulation  bullets.  If  he  chose  to  come  to  life  again, 
that  was  his  own  affair.  The  Government  would 
take  no  notice  of  him  after  he  was  dead.  He  could 
bury  himself,  or  he  could  come  alive — it  was  all  the 
same  to  them.  So  he  came  alive  again." 

"That  is  a  story  which  would  make  a  man's  name 
if  he  wrote  it  down,"  said  Jean  Jacques  eloquently. 
"And  the  poor  little  sefiora,  but  my  heart  bleeds 
for  her!  To  go  like  that  in  such  pain,  and  not  to 
know!  If  she  had  been  my  wife  I  think  I  would 
have  gone  after  her  to  tell  her  it  was  all  right,  and 
to  be  with  her 

He  paused  confused,  for  that  seemed  like  a  reflec- 
tion on  her  father's  chivalry,  and  for  a  man  who  had 

30 


"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow" 

risked  his  life  for  his  banished  king — what  would 
he  have  thought  if  he  had  been  told  that  Sebastian 
Dolores  was  an  anarchist  who  loathed  kings! — it 
was  an  insult  to  suggest  that  he  did  not  know  the 
right  thing  to  do,  or,  knowing,  had  not  done  it. 

She  saw  the  weakness  of  his  case  at  once.  "There 
was  his  duty  to  the  living,"  she  said  indignantly. 

"Ah,  forgive  me — what  a  fool  I  am!"  Jean  Jacques 
said  repentantly  at  once.  "There  was  his  little 
girl,  his  beloved  child,  his  Carmen  Dolores,  so 
beautiful,  with  the  voice  like  a  flute,  and " 

He  drew  nearer  to  her,  his  hand  was  outstretched 
to  take  hers ;  his  eyes  were  full  of  the  passion  of  the 
moment;  pity  was  drowning  all  caution,  all  the 
Norman  shrewdness  in  him,  when  the  Antoine  sud- 
denly stopped  almost  dead  with  a  sudden  jolt  and 
shock,  then  plunged  sideways,  jerked,  and  trembled. 

"We've  struck  a  sunk  iceberg — the  rest  of  the 
story  to-morrow,  Senorita,"  he  cried,  as  they  both 
sprang  to  their  feet. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow,"  she  repeated, 
angry  at  the  stroke  of  fate  which  had  so  interrupted 
the  course  of  her  fortune.  She  said  it  with  a  voice 
also  charged  with  fear ;  for  she  was  by  nature  a  land- 
farer,  not  a  sea-farer,  though  on  the  rivers  of  Spain 
she  had  lived  almost  as  much  as  on  land,  and  she 
was  a  good  swimmer. 

"The  rest  to-morrow,"  she  repeated,  controlling 
herself. 


CHAPTER  III 
"TO-MORROW" 

'T'HE  rest  came  to-morrow.  When  the  Antoine 
•*•  struck  the  sunken  iceberg  she  was  not  more 
than  one  hundred  and  twenty  miles  from  the  coast 
of  Gaspe.  She  had  not  struck  it  full  on,  or  she  would 
have  crumpled  up,  but  had  struck  and  glanced, 
mounting  the  berg,  and  sliding  away  with  a  small 
gaping  wound  in  her  side,  broken  internally  where 
she  had  been  weakest.  Her  condition  was  one  of 
extreme  danger,  and  the  captain  was  by  no  means 
sure  that  he  could  make  the  land.  If  a  storm  or  a 
heavy  sea  came  on,  they  were  doomed. 

As  it  was,  with  all  hands  at  the  pumps  the  water 
gained  on  her,  and  she  moaned  and  creaked  and 
ached  her  way  into  the  night  with  no  surety  that  she 
would  show  a  funnel  to  the  light  of  another  day. 
Passengers  and  crew  alike  worked,  and  the  few  boats 
were  got  ready  to  lower  away  when  the  worst  should 
come  to  the  worst.  Below,  with  the  crew,  the  little 
money-master  of  St.  Saviour's  worked  with  an 
energy  which  had  behind  it  some  generations  of 
hardy  qualities;  and  all  the  time  he  refused  to  be 
downcast.  There  was  something  in  his  nature  or 

32 


"To-morrow" 

in  his  philosophy  after  all.  He  had  not  much  of  a 
voice,  but  it  was  lusty  and  full  of  good  feeling;  and 
when  cursing  began,  when  a  sailor  even  dared  to 
curse  his  baptism — the  crime  of  crimes  to  a  Catholic 
mind — Jean  Jacques  began  to  sing  a  cheery  song 
with  which  the  habitants  make  vocal  their  labours 
or  their  playtimes: 

"A  Saint-Malo,  beau  port  de  mer, 
Trois  gros  navir's  sont  arrives, 
Trois  gros  navir's  sont  arrives 
Charges  d'avoin',  charges  de  ble. 
Charge's  d'avoin',  charges  de  bl6: 
Trois  dam's  s'en  vont  les  marchander." 

And  so  on  through  many  verses,  with  a  heartiness 
that  was  a  good  antidote  to  melancholy,  even  though 
it  was  no  specific  for  a  shipwreck.  It  played  its 
part,  however;  and  when  Jean  Jacques  finished  it, 
he  plunged  into  that  other  outburst  of  the  habitant's 
.gay  spirits,  Bal  chez  BouU: 

"Bal  chez  BouU,  bal  chez  BouU, 
The  vespers  o'er,  we'll  away  to  that; 
With  our  hearts  so  light,  and  our  feet  so  gay, 
We'll  dance  to  the  tune  of  'The  Cardinal's  Hat.' 
The  better  the  deed,  the  better  the  day — 
Bal  chez  BouU,  bal  chez  Boule!" 

And  while  Jean  Jacques  worked  "like  a  little 
French  pony,"  as  they  say  in  Canada  of  every  man 
with  the  courage  to  do  hard  things  in  him,  he  did 
not  stop  to  think  that  the  scanty  life-belts  had  all 
been  taken,  and  that  he  was  a  very  poor  swimmer 
indeed :  for,  as  a  child,  he  had  been  subject  to  cramp, 

3  33 


The  Money  Master 


and  so  had  made  the  Beau  Cheval  River  less  his 
friend  than  would  have  been  useful  now. 

He  realized  it,  however,  soon  after  daybreak 
when,  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  the  shores  of 
Gasp6,  to  which  the  good  Basque  captain  had  been 
slowly  driving  the  Antoine  all  night,  there  came  the 
cry,  "All  hands  on  deck!"  and  "Lower  the  boats!" 
for  the  Antoine' s  time  had  come,  and  within  a  hand- 
reach  of  shore  almost  she  found  the  end  of  her  rickety 
life.  Not  more  than  three-fourths  of  the  passengers 
and  crew  were  got  into  the  boats.  Jean  Jacques 
was  not  one  of  these;  but  he  saw  Carmen  Dolores 
and  her  father  safely  bestowed,  though  in  different 
boats.  To  the  girl's  appeal  to  him  to  come,  he  gave 
a  nod  of  assent,  and  said  he  would  get  in  at  the 
last  moment;  but  this  he  did  not  do,  pushing  into 
the  boat  instead  a  crying  lad  of  fifteen,  who  said 
he  was  afraid  to  die. 

So  it  was  that  Jean  Jacques  took  to  the  water 
side  by  side  with  the  Basque  captain,  when  the 
Antoine  groaned  and  shook,  and  then  grew  still, 
and  presently,  with  some  dignity,  dipped  her  nose 
into  the  shallow  sea  and  went  down. 

"The  rest  of  the  story  to-morrow,"  Jean  Jacques 
had  said  when  the  vessel  struck  the  iceberg  the  night 
before;  and  so  it  was. 

The  boat  in  which  Carmen  had  been  placed  was 
swamped  not  far  from  shore,  but  she  managed  to  lay 
hold  of  a  piece  of  drifting  wreckage,  and  began  to 
fight  steadily  and  easily  landward.  Presently  she 
was  aware,  however,  of  a  man  struggling  hard  some 

34 


"To-morrow" 

little  distance  away  to  the  left  of  her,  and  from  the 
tousled  hair  shaking  in  the  water  she  was  sure  that 
it  was  Jean  Jacques. 

So  it  proved  to  be;  and  thus  it  was  that,  at  his 
last  gasp  almost,  when  he  felt  he  could  keep  up  no 
longer,  the  wooden  seat  to  which  Carmen  clung  came 
to  his  hand,  and  a  word  of  cheer  from  her  drew  his 
head  up  with  what  was  almost  a  laugh. 

"To  think  of  this!"  he  said  presently  when  he 
was  safe,  with  her  swimming  beside  him  without 
support,  for  the  wooden  seat  would  not  sustain  the 
weight  of  two.  "To  think  that  it  is  you  who  saves 
me!"  he  again  declared  eloquently,  as  they  made 
the  shore  in  comparative  ease,  for  she  was  a  fine 
swimmer. 

"It  is  the  rest  of  the  story,"  he  said  with  great 
cheerfulness  and  aplomb  as  they  stood  on  the  shore 
in  the  morning  sun,  shoeless,  coatless,  but  safe: 
and  she  understood. 

There  was  nothing  else  for  him  to  do.  The  usual 
process  of  romance  had  been  reversed.  He  had  not 
saved  her  life,  she  had  saved  his.  The  least  that 
he  could  do  was  to  give  her  shelter  at  the  Manor 
Cartier  yonder  at  St.  Saviour's,  her  and,  if  need  be, 
her  father.  Human  gratitude  must  have  play.  It 
was  so  strong  in  this  case  that  it  alone  could  have 
overcome  the  Norman  caution  of  Jean  Jacques,  and 
all  his  worldly  wisdom  (so  much  in  his  own  eyes). 
Added  thereto  was  the  thing  which  had  been  greatly 
stirred  in  him  at  the  instant  the  Antoine  struck;  and 
now  he  kept  picturing  Carmen  in  the  big  living-room 
and  the  big  bedroom  of  the  house  by  the  mill,  where 

35 


The  Money  Master 


was  the  comfortable  four-poster  which  had  come 
from  the  mansion  of  the  last  Baron  of  Beaugard 
down  by  St.  Laurent. 

Three  days  after  the  shipwreck  of  the  Antoine,  and 
as  soon  as  sufficient  finery  could  be  got  in  Que- 
bec, it  was  accomplished,  the  fate  of  Jean  Jacques. 
How  proud  he  was  to  open  his  cheque-book  be- 
fore the  young  Spanish  maid,  and  write  in  cramped, 
characteristic  hand  a  cheque  for  a  hundred  dollars 
or  so  at  a  time!  A  moiety  of  this  money  was  given 
to  Sebastian  Dolores,  who  could  scarcely  believe  his 
good  fortune.  A  situation  was  got  for  him  by  the 
help  of  a  good  abb6  at  Quebec,  who  was  touched  by 
the  tale  of  the  wreck  of  the  Antoine,  and  by  the  no 
less  wonderful  tale  of  the  refugees  of  Spain,  who 
naturally  belonged  to  the  true  faith  which  "feared 
God  and  honoured  the  King."  Sebastian  Dolores 
was  grateful  for  the  post  offered  him,  though  he 
would  rather  have  gone  to  St.  Saviour's  with  his 
daughter,  for  he  had  lost  the  gift  of  work,  and  he 
desired  peace  after  war.  In  other  words  he  had  that 
fatal  trait  of  those  who  strive  to  make  the  world 
better  by  talk  and  violence,  the  vice  of  indolence. 

But  when  Jean  Jacques  and  his  handsome  bride 
started  for  St.  Saviour's,  the  new  father-in-law  did 
not  despair  of  following  soon.  He  would  greatly 
have  enjoyed  the  festivities  which,  after  all,  did 
follow  the  home-coming  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 
and  his  Spanische ;  for  while  they  lacked  enthusiasm 
because  Carmen  was  a  foreigner,  the  romance  of  the 
story  gave  the  whole  proceedings  a  spirit  and  interest 
which  spread  into  adjoining  parishes :  so  that  people 

36 


"To-morrow" 

came  to  mass  from  forty  miles  away  to  see  the  pair 
who  had  been  saved  from  the  sea. 

And  when  the  Quebec  newspapers  found  their  way 
into  the  parish,  with  a  thrilling  account  of  the  last 
hours  of  the  Antoine;  and  of  Jean  Jacques'  chival- 
rous act  in  refusing  to  enter  a  boat  to  save  himself, 
though  he  was  such  a  bad  swimmer  and  was  in  dan- 
ger of  cramp ;  and  how  he  sang  Bal  chez  Bouti  while 
the  men  worked  at  the  pumps;  they  permitted  the 
aprds  noces  of  M'sieu'  and  Madame  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille  to  be  as  brilliant  as  could  be,  with  the  help 
of  lively  improvisation.  Even  speech-making  oc- 
curred again  in  an  address  of  welcome  some  days 
later.  This  was  followed  by  a  feast  of  Spanish  cakes 
and  meats  made  by  the  hands  of  Carmen  Dolores, 
"the  lady  saved  from  the  sea" — as  they  called  her; 
not  knowing  that  she  had  saved  herself,  and  saved 
Jean  Jacques  as  well.  It  was  not  quite  to  Jean 
Jacques'  credit  that  he  did  not  set  this  error  right, 
and  tell  the  world  the  whole  exact  truth. 


EPOCH    THE    SECOND 


CHAPTER  IV 

THIRTEEN    YEARS    AFTER    AND    THE    CLERK    OF    THE 
COURT   TELLS    A    STORY 

IT  was  hard  to  say  which  was  the  more  important 
person  in  the  parish,  the  New  Cure  or  M'sieu' 
Jean  Jacques  Barbille.  When  the  Old  Cure  was 
alive  Jean  Jacques  was  a  lesser  light,  and  he  ac- 
cepted his  degree  of  illumination  with  content. 
But  when  Pere  Langon  was  gathered  to  his  fathers, 
and  thousands  had  turned  away  from  the  graveyard, 
where  he  who  had  baptised  them,  confirmed  them, 
blessed  them,  comforted  them,  and  firmly  led  them 
was  laid  to  rest,  they  did  not  turn  at  once  to  his 
successor  with  confidence  and  affection.  The  New 
Cure,  M.  Savry,  was  young;  the  Old  Cure  had  lived 
to  be  eighty-five,  bearing  wherever  he  went  a  lamp 
of  wisdom  at  which  the  people  lighted  their  small 
souls.  The  New  Cure  could  command  their  obedi- 
ence, but  he  could  not  command  their  love  and  con-- 
fidence  until  he  had  earned  them. 

So  it  was  that,  for  a  time,  Jean  Jacques  took 
the  place  of  the  Old  Cure  in  the  human  side  of  the 
life  of  the  district,  though  in  a  vastly  lesser  degree. 
Up  to  the  death  of  M.  Lancon,  Jean  Jacques  had 


The  Money  Master 


done  very  well  in  life,  as  things  go  in  out-of-the-way 
places  of  the  world.  His  mill  which  ground  good 
flour  brought  him  increasing  pence;  his  saw-mill 
more  than  paid  its  way;  his  farms  made  a  small 
profit,  in  spite  of  a  cousin  who  worked  one  on  halves, 
but  who  had  a  spendthrift  wife;  the  ash-factory 
which  his  own  initiative  had  started  made  no  money, 
but  the  loss  was  only  small;  and  he  had  even  made 
profit  out  of  his  lime-kilns,  although  Sebastian  Do- 
lores, Carmen's  father,  had  at  one  time  mismanaged 
them — but  of  that  anon.  Jean  Jacques  himself 
managed  the  business  of  money-lending  and  horse- 
dealing;  and  he  also  was  agent  for  fire  insurance 
and  a  dealer  in  lightning-rods. 

In  the  thirteen  years  since  he  married  he  had  been 
able  to  keep  a  good  many  irons  in  the  fire,  and  also 
keep  them  more  or  less  hot.  Many  people  in  his 
and  neighbouring  parishes  were  indebted  to  him, 
and  it  was  worth  their  while  to  stand  well  with  him. 
If  he  insisted  on  debts  being  paid,  he  was  never 
exacting  or  cruel.  If  he  lent  money,  he  never  de- 
manded more  than  eight  per  cent.;  and  he  never 
pressed  his  debtors  unduly.  His  cheerfulness  sel- 
dom deserted  him,  and  he  was  notably  kind  to  the 
poor.  Not  seldom  in  the  winter  time  a  poor  man, 
here  and  there  in  the  parish,  would  find  dumped 
down  outside  his  door  in  the  early  morning  a  half- 
cord  of  wood  or  a  bag  of  flour. 

It  could  not  be  said  that  Jean  Jacques  did  not 
enjoy  his  own  generosity.  His  vanity,  however,  did 
not  come  from  an  increasing  admiration  of  his  own 
personal  appearance,  a  weakness  which  often  be- 


Thirteen  years  after 


longs  to  middle-age;  but  from  the  study  of  his  so- 
called  philosophy,  which  in  time  became  an  obsession 
with  him.  In  vain  the  occasional  college  professors, 
who  spent  summer  months  at  St.  Saviour's,  sought 
to  interest  him  in  science  and  history,  for  his  philoso- 
phy had  large  areas  of  boredom ;  but  science  marched 
over  too  jagged  a  road  for  his  tender  intellectual 
feet;  the  wild  places  where  it  led  dismayed  him. 
History  also  meant  numberless  dates  and  facts. 
Perhaps  he  could  have  managed  the  dates,  for  he 
was  quick  at  figures,  but  the  facts  were  like  bees 
in  their  hive, — he  could  scarcely  tell  one  from  an- 
other by  looking  at  them. 

So  it  was  that  Jean  Jacques  kept  turning  his  eyes, 
as  he  thought,  to  the  everlasting  meaning  of  things, 
to  "the  laws  of  Life  and  the  decrees  of  Destiny." 
He  was  one  of  those  who  had  found,  as  he  thought, 
what  he  could  do,  and  was  sensible  enough  to  do  it. 
Let  the  poor  fellows,  who  gave  themselves  to  science, 
trouble  their  twisted  minds  with  trigonometry  and 
the  formula  of  some  grotesque  chemical  combination ; 
let  the  dull  people  rub  their  noses  in  the  ink  of  Greek 
and  Latin,  which  was  no  use  for  everyday  consump- 
tion ;  let  the  heads  of  historians  ache  with  the  warring 
facts  of  the  lives  of  nations;  it  all  made  for  sleep. 
But  philosophy — ah,  there  was  a  field  where  a  man 
could  always  use  knowledge  got  from  books  or 
sorted  out  of  his  own  experiences! 

It  happened,  therefore,  that  Jean  Jacques,  who 
not  too  vaguely  realized  that  there  was  reputation 
to  be  got  from  being  thought  a  philosopher,  always 
carried  about  with  him  his  little  compendium  from 

43 


The  Money  Master 


the  quay  at  Quebec,  which  he  had  brought  ashore 
inside  his  red-flannel  shirt,  with  the  antique  silver 
watch,  when  the  Antoine  went  down. 

Thus  also  it  was  that  when  a  lawyer  in  court  at 
Vilray,  four  miles  from  St.  Saviour's,  asked  him 
one  day,  when  he  stepped  into  the  witness-box, 
what  he  was,  meaning  what  was  his  occupation, 
his  reply  was,  "Moi — je  suis  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques, 
philosophe  —  (Me  —  I  am  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques, 
philosopher)." 

A  little  later  outside  the  court-house,  the  Judge 
who  had  tried  the  case — M.  Carcasson — said  to  the 
Clerk  of  the  Court : 

"A  curious,  interesting  little  man,  that  Monsieur 
Jean  Jacques.  What's  his  history?" 

"A  character,  a  character,  monsieur  le  juge,"  was 
the  reply  of  M.  Armand  Fille.  "His  family  has  been 
here  since  Frontenac's  time.  He  is  a  figure  in  the 
district,  with  a  hand  in  everything.  He  does  enough 
foolish  things  to  ruin  any  man,  yet  swims  along — 
swims  along.  He  has  many  kinds  of  business — 
mills,  stores,  farms,  lime-loins,  and  all  that,  and 
keeps  them  all  going;  and  as  if  he  hadn't  enough 
to  do,  and  wasn't  risking  enough,  he's  now  organiz- 
ing a  cheese-factory  on  the  co-operative  principle,  as 
in  Upper  Canada  among  the  English." 

"He  has  sc  touch  of  originality,  that's  sure,"  was 
the  reply  of  the  Judge. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  nodded  and  sighed.  ' ' Mon- 
seigneur  Giron  of  Laval,  the  greatest  scholar  in 
Quebec,  he  said  to  me  once  that  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques 
missed  being  a  genius  by  an  inch.  But  monsieur  le 

44 


"MO!— JE    SUIS   M'SIEU'    JEAN    JACQUES,    PHILOSOPHE" 


Thirteen  years  after 


juge,  not  to  have  that  inch  is  worse  than  to  be  an 
ignoramus." 

Judge  Carcasson  nodded.  "Ah,  surely!  Your 
Jean  Jacques  lacks  a  balance-wheel.  He  has  brains, 
but  not  enough.  He  has  vision,  but  it  is  not  steady; 
he  has  argument,  but  it  breaks  down  just  where  it 
should  be  most  cohesive.  He  interested  me.  I 
took  note  of  every  turn  of  his  mind  as  he  gave  evi- 
dence. He  will  go  on  for  a  time,  pulling  his  strings, 
doing  this  and  doing  that,  and  then,  all  at  once, 
when  he  has  got  a  train  of  complications,  his  brain 
will  not  be  big  enough  to  see  the  way  out.  Tell  me, 
has  he  a  balance-wheel  in  his  home — a  sensible  wife, 
perhaps?" 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  shook  his  head  mournfully 
and  seemed  to  hesitate.  Then  he  said,  "Comme  ci, 
comme  fa — but  no,  I  will  speak  the  truth  about  it. 
She  is  a  Spaniard — the  Spanische  she  is  called  by 
the  neighbours.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  that,  and 
you  will  wonder  that  he  has  carried  on  as  well  as 
he  has,  with  his  vanity  and  his  philosophy." 

"He'll  have  need  of  his  philosophy  before  he's 
done,  or  I  don't  know  human  nature;  he'll  get  a  bad 
fall  one  of  these  days,"  responded  the  Judge.  ; '  Moi 
—je  suis  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques,  philosophe ' — that  is 
what  he  said.  Bumptious  little  man,  and  yet — and 
yet  there's  something  in  him.  There's  a  sense  of 
things  which  everyone  doesn't  have  —  a  glimmer 
of  life  beyond  his  own  orbit,  a  catching  at  the  biggest 
elements  of  being,  a  hovering  on  the  confines  of  deep 
understanding,  as  it  were.  Somehow  I  feel  almost 
sorry  for  him,  though  he  annoyed  me  while  he  was 

45 


The  Money  Master 


in  the  witness-box,  in  spite  of  myself.  He  was  as 
the  English  say,  so  'damn  sure." 

"So  damn  sure  always,"  agreed  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  with  a  sense  of  pleasure  that  his  great  man, 
this  wonderful  aged  little  judge,  should  have  shown 
himself  so  human  as  to  use  such  a  phrase. 

"But,  no  doubt,  the  sureness  has  been  a  good 
servant  in  his  business,"  returned  the  Judge.  "Con- 
fidence in  a  weak  world  gets  unearned  profit  often. 
But  tell  me  about  his  wife — the  Spanische.  Tell  me 
the  how  and  why,  and  everything.  I'd  like  to  trace 
our  little  money-man  wise  to  his  source." 

Again  M.  Fille  was  sensibly  agitated.  "She  is 
handsome,  and  she  has  great,  good  gifts  when  she 
likes  to  use  them,"  he  answered.  "She  can  do  as 
much  in  an  hour  as  most  women  can  do  in  two ;  but 
then  she  will  not  keep  at  it.  Her  life  is  but  fits  and 
starts.  Yet  she  has  a  good  head  for  business,  yes, 
very  good.  She  can  see  through  things.  Still,  there 
it  is — she  will  not  hold  fast  from  day  to  day." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  where  did  she  come  from?  What 
was  the  field  where  she  grew?" 

"To  be  sure,  monsieur.  It  was  like  this,"  re- 
sponded the  other. 

Thereupon  M.  Fille  proceeded  to  tell  the  history, 
musical  with  legend,  of  Jean  Jacques'  Grand  Tour, 
of  the  wreck  of  the  Antoine,  of  the  marriage  of  the 
"seigneur,"  the  home-coming,  and  the  life  that 
followed,  so  far  as  rumour,  observation,  and  a  mind 
with  a  gift  for  narrative,  which  was  not  to  be  in- 
complete for  lack  of  imagination,  could  make  it. 
It  was  only  when  he  offered  his  own  reflections  on 

46 


Thirteen  years  after 


Carmen  Dolores,  now  Carmen  Barbille,  and  on 
women  generally,  that  Judge  Carcasson  pulled  him 
up. 

"So,  so,  I  see.  She  has  temperament  and  so  on, 
but  she's  unsteady,  and  regarded  by  her  neigh- 
bours not  quite  as  one  that  belongs.  Bah,  the  con- 
ceit of  every  race!  They  are  all  the  same.  The 
English  are  the  worst — as  though  the  good  God  was 
English.  But  the  child — so  beautiful,  you  say,  and 
yet  more  like  the  father  than  the  mother.  He  is 
not  handsome,  that  Jean  Jacques,  but  I  can  under- 
stand that  the  little  one  should  be  like  him  and  yet 
beautiful  too.  I  should  like  to  see  the  child." 

Suddenly  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  stopped  and 
touched  the  arm  of  his  distinguished  friend  and 
patron.  "That  is  very  easy,  monsieur,"  he  said 
eagerly,  "for  there  she  is  in  the  red  wagon  yonder, 
waiting  for  her  father.  She  adores  him,  and  that 
makes  trouble  sometimes.  Then  the  mother  gets 
fits,  and  makes  things  hard  at  the  Manor  Cartier. 
It  is  not  all  a  bed  of  roses  for  our  Jean  Jacques.  But 
there  it  is.  He  is  very  busy  all  the  time.  Some- 
thing doing  always,  never  still,  except  when  you  will 
find  him  by  the  road-side,  or  in  a  tavern  with  all  the 
people  round  him,  talking,  jesting,  and  he  himself 
going  into  a  trance  with  his  book  of  philosophy.  It 
is  very  strange  that  everlasting  going,  going,  going, 
and  yet  that  love  of  his  book.  I  sometimes  think  it 
is  all  pretence,  and  that  he  is  all  vanity- — or  almost 
so.  Heaven  forgive  me  for  my  want  of  charity!" 

The  little  round  judge  cocked  his  head  astutely. 
"But  you  say  he  is  kind  to  the  poor,  that  he  does 

47 


The  Money  Master 


,iot  treat  men  hardly  who  are  in  debt  to  him,  and 
that  he  will  take  his  coat  off  his  back  to  give  to  a 
tramp — is  it  so?" 

"As  so  as  so,  monsieur." 

"Then  he  is  not  all  vanity,  and  because  of  that 
he  will  feel  the  blow  when  it  comes — alas,  so  much 
he  will  feel  it!" 

"What  blow,  monsieur  le  juge — but  ah,  look  mon- 
sieur!" He  pointed  eagerly.  "There  she  is,  going 
to  the  red  wagon — Madame  Jean  Jacques.  Is  she 
not  a  figure  of  a  woman?  See  the  walk  of  her — is 
it  not  distinguished?  She  is  half  a  hand-breadth 
taller  than  Jean  Jacques.  And  her  face,  most  sure 
it  is  a  face  to  see.  If  Jean  Jacques  was  not  so  busy 
with  his  farms  and  his  mills  and  his  kilns  and  his 
usury,  he  would  see  what  a  woman  he  has  got.  It 
is  his  good  fortune  that  she  has  such  sense  in  business. 
When  Jean  Jacques  listens  to  her,  he  goes  right.  She 
herself  did  not  want  her  father  to  manage  the  lime- 
kilns— the  old  Sebastian  Dolores.  She  was  for  him 
staying  at  Mirimachi,  where  he  kept  the  books  of 
the  lumber  firm.  But  no,  Jean  Jacques  said  that  he 
could  make  her  happy  by  having  her  father  near  her, 
and  he  would  not  believe  she  meant  what  she  said. 
He  does  not  understand  her;  that  is  the  trouble.  He 
knows  as  much  of  women  or  men  as  I  know  of— 

"Of  the  law — heinf"  laughed  the  great  man. 

"Monsieur — ah,  that  is  your  little  joke!  I  laugh, 
yes,  but  I  laugh,"  responded  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
a  little  uncertainly.  "Now  once  when  she  told 
him  that  the  lime-kilns 

The  Judge,  who  had  retraced  his  steps  down  the 

48 


Thirteen  years  after 


street  of  the  town — it  was  little  more  than  a  large 
village,  but  because  it  had  a  court-house  and  a  mar- 
ket-place it  was  called  a  town — that  he  might  have 
a  good  look  at  Madame  Jean  Jacques  and  her  child 
before  he  passed  them,  suddenly  said: 

"How  is  it  you  know  so  much  about  it  all,  Maitre 
Fille — as  to  what  she  says  and  of  the  inner  secrets 
of  the  household?  Ah,  ha,  my  little  Lothario,  I 
have  caught  you — a  bachelor  too,  with  time  on  his 
hands,  and  the  right  side  of  seventy  as  well!  The 
evidence  you  have  given  of  a  close  knowledge  of 
the  household  of  our  Jean  Jacques  does  not  have  its 
basis  in  hearsay,  but  in  acute  personal  observation. 
Tut— tut!  Fie— fie!  my  little  gay  Clerk  of  the 
Court.  Fie!  Fie!" 

M.  Fille  was  greatly  disconcerted.  He  had  never 
been  a  Lothario.  In  forty  years  he  had  never  had 
an  episode  with  one  of  "the  other  sex,"  but  it  was 
not  because  he  was  impervious  to  the  softer  emo- 
tions. An  intolerable  shyness  had  ever  possessed 
him  when  in  the  presence  of  women,  and  even  small 
girl  children  had  frightened  him,  till  he  had  made 
friends  with  little  Zoe  Barbille,  the  daughter  of  Jean 
Jacques.  Yet  even  with  Zoe,  who  was  so  simple  and 
companionable,  and  the  very  soul  of  childish  con- 
fidence, he  used  to  blush  and  falter  till  she  made 
him  talk.  Then  he  became  composed,  and  his 
tongue  was  like  a  running  stream,  and  on  that 
stream  any  craft  could  sail.  On  it  he  became  at 
ease  with  madame  the  Spanische,  and  he  even  went 
so  far  as  to  look  her  full  in  the  eyes  on  more  than 
one  occasion. 

4  49 


The  Money  Master 


"Answer  me — ah,  you  cannot  answer!"  teasingly 
added  the  Judge,  who  loved  his  Clerk  of  the  Court, 
and  had  great  amusement  out  of  his  discomfiture. 
"You  are  convicted.  At  an  age  when  a  man  should 
be  settling  down,  you  are  gallivanting  with  the  wife 
of  a  philosopher." 

"Monsieur — monsieur  le  juge!"  protested  M.  Fille 
with  slowly  heightening  colour.  "I  am  innocent, 
yes,  altogether.  There  is  nothing,  believe  me.  It 
is  the  child,  the  little  Zo6 — but  a  maid  of  charm  and 
kindness.  She  brings  me  cakes  and  the  toffy  made 
by  her  own  hands;  and  if  I  go  to  the  Manor  Cartier, 
as  I  often  do,  it  is  to  be  polite  and  neighbourly.  If 
Madame  says  things  to  me,  and  if  I  see  what  I 
see,  and  hear  what  I  hear,  it  is  no  crime;  it  is  no 
misdemeanour;  it  is  within  the  law — the  perfect 
law." 

Suddenly  the  Judge  linked  his  arm  within  that 
of  the  other,  for  he  also  was  little,  and  he  was  fat 
and  round  and  ruddy,  and  even  smaller  than  M. 
Fille,  who  was  thin,  angular  and  pale. 

"Ah,  my  little  Confucius,"  he  said  gently,  "have 
you  seen  and  heard  me  so  seldom  that  you  do  not 
know  me  yet,  or  what  I  really  think?  Of  course 
it  is  within  the  law — the  perfect  law — to  visit  at 
m'sieu'  the  philosopher's  house  and  talk  at  length 
also  to  madame  the  philosopher's  wife;  while  to 
make  the  position  regular  by  friendship  with  the 
philosopher's  child  is  a  wisdom  which  I  can  only 
ascribe  to" — his  voice  was  charged  with  humour 
and  malicious  badinage — "to  an  extended  acquain- 
tance with  the  devices  of  human  nature,  as  seen  in 

So 


Thirteen  years  after 


those  episodes  of  the  courts  with  which  you  have 
been  long  familiar." 

"Oh,  monsieur,  dear  monsieur!"  protested  the 
Clerk  of  the  Court,  "you  always  make  me  your 
butt." 

"My  friend,"  said  the  Judge,  squeezing  his  arm, 
"if  I  could  have  you  no  other  way,  I  would  make 
you  my  butler!" 

Then  they  both  laughed  at  the  inexpensive  joke, 
and  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  in  high  spirits,  for 
on  either  side  of  the  street  were  people  with  whom 
he  lived  every  day,  and  they  could  see  the  doyen  of 
the  Bench,  the  great  Judge  Carcasson,  who  had 
refused  to  be  knighted,  arm  in  arm  with  him.  Aye, 
and  better  than  all,  and  more  than  all,  here  was  Zoe 
Barbille  drawing  her  mother's  attention  to  him  al- 
most in  the  embrace  of  the  magnificent  jurist. 

The  Judge,  with  his  small,  round,  quizzical  eyes 
which  missed  nothing,  saw  too;  and  his  attention 
was  strangely  arrested  by  the  faces  of  both  the  mother 
and  the  child.  His  first  glance  at  the  woman's  face 
made  him  flash  an  inward  light  on  the  memory  of 
Jean  Jacques'  face  in  the  witness-box,  and  a  look 
of  reflective  irony  came  into  his  own.  The  face  of 
Carmen  Dolores,  wife  of  the  philosophic  miller  and 
money-master,  did  not  belong  to  the  world  where 
she  was  placed — not  because  she  was  so  unlike  the 
habitant  women,  or  even  the  wives  of  the  big  farm- 
ers, or  the  sister  of  the  Cure,  or  the  ladies  of  the 
military  and  commercial  exiles  who  lived  in  that 
portion  of  the  province;  but  because  of  an  alien 
something  in  her  look — a  lonely,  distant  sense  of 


The  Money  Master 


isolation,  a  something  which  might  hide  a  com- 
panionship and  sympathy  of  a  rare  kind,  or  might 
be  but  the  mask  of  a  furtive,  soulless  nature.  In  the 
child's  face  was  nothing  of  this.  It  was  open  as  the 
day,  bright  with  the  cheerfulness  of  her  father's 
countenance,  alive  with  a  humour  which  that  coun- 
tenance did  not  possess.  The  contour  was  like  that 
of  Jean  Jacques,  but  with  a  fineness  and  delicacy 
to  its  fulness  absent  from  his  own;  and  her  eyes 
were  a  deep  and  lustrous  brown,  under  a  forehead 
which  had  a  boldness  of  gentle  dignity  possessed  by 
neither  father  nor  mother.  Her  hair  was  thick, 
brown  and  very  full,  like  that  of  her  father,  and  in 
all  respects,  save  one,  she  had  an  advantage  over 
both  her  parents.  Her  mouth  had  a  sweetness 
which  might  not  unfairly  be  called  weakness,  though 
that  was  balanced  by  a  chin  of  commendable  strength. 

But  the  Judge's  eyes  found  at  once  this  vulnerable 
point  in  her  character  as  he  had  found  that  of  her 
mother.  Delightful  the  child  was,  and  alert  and 
companionable,  with  no  remarkable  gifts,  but  with 
a  rare  charm  and  sympathy.  Her  face  was  the 
mirror  of  her  mind,  and  it  had  no  ulterior  thought. 
Her  mother's  face,  the  Judge  had  noted,  was  the 
foreground  of  a  landscape  which  had  lonely  shadows. 
It  was  a  face  of  some  distinction  and  suited  to  sur- 
roundings more  notable,  though  the  rural  life  Car- 
men had  led  since  the  Antoine  went  down  and  her 
fortunes  came  up,  had  coarsened  her  beauty  a  very 
little. 

"There's  something  stirring  in  the  coverts,"  said 
the  Judge  to  himself  as  he  was  introduced  to  the 

52 


Thirteen  years  after 


mother  and  child.  By  a  hasty  gesture  Zo6  gave 
a  command  to  M.  Fille  to  help  her  down.  With  a 
hand  on  his  shoulder  she  dropped  to  the  ground. 
Her  object  was  at  once  apparent.  She  made  a 
pretty  old-fashioned  curtsey  to  the  Judge,  then  held 
out  her  hand,  as  though  to  reassert  her  democratic 
equality. 

As  the  Judge  looked  at  Madame  Barbille,  he  was 
involuntarily,  but  none  the  less  industriously,  not- 
ing her  characteristics;  and  the  sum  of  his  reflec- 
tions, after  a  few  moments'  talk,  was  that  dangers 
he  had  seen  ahead  of  Jean  Jacques,  would  not  be 
averted  by  his  wife,  indeed  might  easily  have  their 
origin  in  her. 

"I  wonder  it  has  gone  on  as  long  as  it  has,"  he 
said  to  himself;  though  it  seemed  unreasonable 
that  his  few  moments  with  her,  and  the  story  told 
him  by  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  should  enable  him 
to  come  to  any  definite  conclusion.  But  at  eighty- 
odd  Judge  Carcasson  was  a  Solon  and  a  Solomon 
in  one.  He  had  seen  life  from  -all  angles,  and  he 
was  not  prepared  to  give  any  virtue  or  the  possession 
of  any  virtue  too  much  rope;  while  nothing  in  life 
surprised  him. 

"How  would  you  like  to  be  a  judge?"  he  asked 
of  Zoe,  suddenly  taking  her  hand  in  his.  A  kinship 
had  been  at  once  established  between  them,  so  little 
has  age,  position,  and  intellect  to  do  with  the  natural 
gravitations  of  human  nature.  <| 

She  did  not  answer  direct,  and  that  pleased  him. 
"If  I  were  a  judge  I  should  have  no  jails,"  she 
said. 

53 


"What  would  you  do  with  the  bad  people?"  he 
asked. 

"I  would  put  them  alone  on  a  desert  island,  or 
out  at  sea  in  a  little  boat,  or  out  on  the  prairies  with- 
out a  horse,  so  that  they'd  have  to  work  for  their 
lives." 

"Oh,  I  see!  If  M.  Fille  here  set  fire  to  a  house, 
you  would  drop  him  on  the  prairie  far  away  from 
everything  and  everybody  and  let  him  'root  hog 
or  die'?" 

"Don't  you  think  it  would  kill  him  or  cure  him?" 
she  asked  whimsically. 

The  Judge  laughed,  his  eyes  twinkling.  "That's 
what  they  did  when  the  world  was  young,  dear 
ma'm'selle.  There  was  no  time  to  build  jails.  Alone 
on  the  prairie — a  separate  prairie  for  every  criminal 
—that  would  take  a  lot  of  space;  but  the  idea  is 
all  right.  It  mightn't  provide  the  proper  degree 
of  punishment,  however.  But  that  is  being  too 
particular.  Alone  on  the  prairie  for  punishment- 
well,  I  should  like  to  see  it  tried." 

He  remembered  that  saying  of  his  long  after, 
while  yet  he  was  alive,  and  a  tale  came  to  him  from 
the  prairies  which  made  his  eyes  turn  more  intently 
towards  a  land  that  is  far  off,  where  the  miserable 
miscalculations  and  mistakes  of  this  world  are  re- 
adjusted. Now  he  was  only  conscious  of  a  primitive 
imagination  looking  out  of  a  young  girl's  face,  and 
making  a  bridge  between  her  understanding  and  his 
own. 

"What  else  would  you  do  if  you  were  a  judge?" 
he  asked  presently. 

54 


Thirteen  years  after 


"I  would  make  my  father  be  a  miller,"  she  replied. 

"But  he  is  a  miller,  I  hear." 

"But  he  is  so  many  other  things — so  many.  If 
he  was  only  a  miller  we  should  have  more  of  him. 
He  is  at  home  only  a  little.  If  I  get  up  early  enough 
in  the  morning,  or  if  I  am  let  stay  up  at  night  late 
enough,  I  see  him;  but  that  is  not  enough — is  it, 
mother?"  she  added  with  a  sudden  sense  that  she 
had  gone  too  far,  that  she  ought  not  to  say  this 
perhaps. 

The  woman's  face  had  darkened  for  an  instant, 
and  irritation  showed  in  her  eyes,  but  by  an  effort 
of  the  will  she  controlled  herself. 

"Your  father  knows  best  what  he  can  do  and 
can't  do,"  she  said  evenly. 

"But  you  would  not  let  a  man  judge  for  himself, 
would  you,  ma'm'selle?"  asked  the  old  inquisitor. 
"You  would  judge  for  the  man  what  was  best  for 
him  to  do?" 

"I  would  judge  for  my  father,"  she  replied.  "He 
is  too  good  a  man  to  judge  for  himself." 

"Well,  there's  a  lot  of  sense  in  that,  ma'm'selle 
philosophe, ' '  answered  Judge  Carcasson .  ' '  You  would 
make  the  good  idle,  and  make  the  bad  work.  The 
good  you  would  put  in  a  mill  to  watch  the  stones 
grind,  and  the  bad  you  would  put  on  a  prairie  alone 
to  make  the  grist  for  the  grinding.  Ma'm'selle, 
we  must  be  friends — is  it  not  so?" 

"Haven't  we  always  been  friends?"  the  young 
girl  asked  with  the  look  of  a  visionary  suddenly 
springing  up  in  her  eyes. 

Here  was  temperament  indeed.  She  pleased  Judge 

55 


The  Money  Master 


Carcasson  greatly.  "But  yes,  always,  and  always, 
and  always,"  he  replied.  Inwardly  he  said  to  him- 
self, "I  did  not  see  that  at  first.  It  is  her  father 
in  her." 

"ZoeT1   said  her  mother  reprovingly. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  CLERK   OP   THE   COURT   ENDS   HIS    STORY 

A  MOMENT  afterwards  the  Judge,  as  he  walked 
**•  down  the  street  still  arm  in  arm  with  the  Clerk 
of  the  Court,  said:  "That  child  must  have  good 
luck,  or  she  will  not  have  her  share  of  happiness. 
She  has  depths  that  are  not  deep  enough."  Pres- 
ently he  added,  "Tell  me,  my  Clerk,  the  man — 
Jean  Jacques — he  is  so  much  away — has  there  never 
been  any  talk  about — about— 

"About — monsieur  le  juge?"  asked  M.  Fille 
rather  stiffly.  "For  instance — about  what?" 

"For  instance,  about  a  man — not  Jean  Jacques." 
The  lips  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  tightened. 

"Never  at  any  time — till  now,  monsieur  le  juge." 

"Ah— till  now!" 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  blushed.  What  he  was 
about  to  say  was  difficult,  but  he  alone  of  all  the 
world  guessed  at  the  tragedy  which  was  hovering 
over  Jean  Jacques'  home.  By  chance  he  had  seen 
something  on  an  afternoon  of  three  days  before,  and 
he  had  fled  from  it  as  a  child  would  fly  from  a  demon. 
He  was  a  purist  at  law,  but  he  was  a  purist  in  life 
also,  and  not  because  the  flush  of  youth  had  gone 
and  his  feet  were  on  the  path  which  leads  into  the 

57 


The  Money  Master 


autumn  of  a  man's  days.  The  thing  he  had  seen 
had  been  terribly  on  his  mind,  and  he  had  felt  that 
his  own  judgment  was  not  sufficient  for  the  situa- 
tion, that  he  ought  to  tell  someone.  The  Cur6 
was  the  only  person  who  had  come  to  his  mind 
when  he  became  troubled  to  the  point  of  actual 
mental  agony.  But  the  new  cure",  M.  Savry,  was 
not  like  the  Old  Cure,  and,  besides,  was  it  not  step- 
ping between  the  woman  and  her  confessional? 
Yet  he  felt  that  something  ought  to  be  done.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  speak  to  Jean  Jacques. 
That  would  have  seemed  so  brutal  to  the  woman. 
It  came  to  him  to  speak  to  Carmen,  but  he  knew  that 
he  dared  not  do  so.  He  could  not  say  to  a  woman 
that  which  must  shame  her  before  him,  she  who 
had  kept  her  head  so  arrogantly  high — not  so  much 
to  him,  however,  as  to  the  rest  of  the  world.  He  had 
not  the  courage ;  and  yet  he  had  fear  lest  some  awful 
thing  would  at  any  moment  now  befal  the  Manor 
Cartier.  If  it  did,  he  would  feel  himself  to  blame 
had  he  done  nothing  to  stay  the  peril.  So  far  he 
was  the  only  person  who  could  do  so,  for  he  was 
the  only  person  who  knew! 

The  Judge  could  feel  his  friend's  arm  tremble  with 
emotion,  and  he  said,  "Come,  now,  my  Plato,  what 
is  it  ?  A  man  has  come  to  disturb  the  peace  of  Jean 
Jacques,  our  philosophy,  eh?" 

"That  is  it,  monsieur — a  man  of  a  kind." 

"Oh,  of  course,  my  bambino,  of  course,  a  man  'of 

a  kind,'  or  there  would  be  no  peace  disturbed.     You 

want  to  tell  me,  I  see.     Proceed  then;    there  is  no 

reason  why  you  should  not.     I  am  secret.     I  have 

58 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

seen  much.  I  have  no  prejudices.  As  you  will, 
however;  but  I  can  see  it  would  relieve  your  mind 
to  tell  me.  In  truth  I  felt  there  was  something 
when  I  saw  you  look  at  her  first,  when  you  spoke 
to  her,  when  she  talked  with  me.  She  is  a  fine 
figure  of  a  woman,  and  Jean  Jacques,  as  you  say, 
is  much  away  from  home.  In  fact  he  neglects  her 
— is  it  not  so?" 

"He  means  it  not,  but  it  is  so.  His  life  is  full 
of- 

"Yes,  yes,  of  stores  and  ash-factories  and  debtors 
and  lightning-rods  and  lime-kilns,  and  mortgaged 
farms,  and  the  price  of  wheat — but  certainly,  I 
understand  it  all,  my  Fille.  She  is  too  much  alone, 
and  if  she  has  travelled  by  the  compass  all  these 
thirteen  years  without  losing  the  track,  it  is  some- 
thing to  the  credit  of  human  nature." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  a  vow  before  the  good  God !" 

The  Judge  interrupted  sharply.  "Tut,  tut — these 
vows!  Do  you  not  know  that  a  vow  may  be  a 
thing  that  ruins  past  redemption?  A  vow  is  sacred. 
Well,  a  poor  mortal  in  one  moment  of  weakness 
breaks  it.  Then  there  is  a  sense  of  awful  shame — 
of  being  lost,  of  never  being  able  to  put  right  the 
breaking  of  the  vow,  though  the  rest  can  be  put 
right  by  sorrow  and  repentance!  I  would  have  no 
vows.  They  haunt  like  ghosts  when  they  are  broken, 
they  torture  like  fire  then.  Don't  talk  to  me  of 
vows.  It  is  not  vows  that  keep  the  world  right,  but 
the  prayer  of  a  man's  soul  from  day  to  day." 

The  Judge's  words  sounded  almost  blasphemous 
to  M.  Fille.  A  vow  not  keep  the  world  right !  Then 

59 


The  Money  Master 


why  the  vows  of  the  Church  at  baptism,  at  confirma- 
tion, at  marriage?  Why  the  vows  of  the  priests,  of 
the  nuns,  of  those  who  had  given  themselves  to 
eternal  service?  Monsieur  had  spoken  terrible 
things.  And  yet  he  had  said  at  the  last,  "It  is  not 
vows  that  keep  the  world  right,  but  the  prayer  of  a 
man's  soul  from  day  to  day."  That  was  not  hereti- 
cal, or  atheistic,  or  blasphemous.  It  sounded  logical 
and  true  and  good. 

He  was  about  to  say  that,  to  some  people,  vows 
were  the  only  way  of  keeping  them  to  their  duty — 
and  especially  women — but  the  Judge  added  gently : 

"I  would  not  for  the  world  hurt  your  sensibilities, 
my  little  Clerk,  and  we  are  not  nearly  so  far  apart 
as  you  think  at  the  minute.  Thank  God,  I  keep  the 
faith  that  is  behind  all  faith — the  speech  of  a  man's 
soul  with  God.  .  .  .  But  there,  if  you  can,  let  us 
hear  what  man  it  is  who  disturbs  the  home  of  the 
philosopher.  It  is  not  my  Fille,  that's  sure." 

He  could  not  resist  teasing,  this  judge  who  had  a 
mind  of  the  most  rare  uprightness;  and  he  was  not 
always  sorry  when  his  teasing  hurt;  for,  to  his  mind, 
men  should  be  lashed  into  strength,  when  they 
drooped  over  the  tasks  of  life;  and  what  so  sharp 
a  lash  as  ridicule  or  satire! 

"Proceed,  my  friend,"  he  urged  brusquely,  not 
waiting  for  the  gasp  of  pained  surprise  of  the  little 
Clerk  to  end.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  figure  beside 
him  presently  straighten  itself,  as  though  to  be 
braced  for  a  task  of  difficulty.  Indignation  and  re- 
sentment were  good  things  to  stiffen  a  man's  back. 

"It  was  three  days  ago,"  said  M.  Fille.  "I  saw 

60 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

it  with  my  own  eyes.  I  had  come  to  the  Manor 
Cartier  by  the  road,  down  the  hill — Mount  Violet— 
behind  the  house.  I  could  see  into  the  windows  of 
the  house.  There  was  no  reason  why  I  should  not 
see — there  never  has  been  a  reason,"  he  added  as 
though  to  justify  himself. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  my  friend.  One's  eyes  are 
open,  and  one  sees  what  one  sees,  without  looking 
for  it.  Proceed." 

"As  I  looked  down  I  saw  Madame  with  a  man's 
arms  round  her,  and  his  lips  to  hers.  It  was  not 
Jean  Jacques." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  Proceed.  What  did  you 
do?" 

"I  stopped.     I  fell  back— 

"Of  course.     Behind  a  tree?" 

"Behind  some  elderberry  bushes." 

"Of  course.  Elderberry  bushes — that's  better 
than  a  tree.  I  am  very  fond  of  elderberry  wine 
when  it  is  new.  Proceed." 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  shrank.  What  did  it 
matter  whether  or  no  the  Judge  liked  elderberry- 
wine,  when  the  world  was  falling  down  for  Jean 
Jacques  and  his  Zoe — and  his  wife.  But  with  a 
sigh  he  continued:  "There  is  nothing  more.  I 
stayed  there  for  awhile,  and  then  crept  up  the  hill 
again,  and  came  back  to  my  home  and  locked  my- 
self in." 

"What  had  you  done  that  you  should  lock  your- 
self in?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  how  can  I  explain  such  things? 
Perhaps  I  was  ashamed  that  I  had  seen  things  I 

61 


The  Money  Master 


should  not  have  seen.  I  do  not  blush  that  I  wept 
for  the  child,  who  is — but  you  saw  her,  monsieur  le 
juge." 

"Yes,  yes,  the  little  Zoe,  and  the  little  philosopher. 
Proceed." 

"What  more  is  there  to  tell!" 

"A  trifle  perhaps  as  you  will  think,"  remarked  the 
Judge  ironically,  but  as  one  who,  finding  a  crime, 
must  needs  find  the  criminal  too.  "I  must  ask  you 
to  inform  the  Court  who  was  the  too  polite  friend  of 
Madame." 

"Monsieur,  pardon  me.  I  forgot.  It  is  essential 
of  course.  You  must  know  that  there  is  a  flume,  a 
great  wooden  channel— 

"Yes,  yes.  I  comprehend.  Once  I  had  a  case 
of  a  flume.  It  was  fifteen  feet  deep  and  it  let  in  the 
water  of  the  river  to  the  mill-wheels.  A  flume 
regulates,  concentrates,  and  controls  the  water  power. 
I  comprehend  perfectly.  Well?" 

"So.  This  flume  for  Jean  Jacques'  mill  was  also 
fifteen  feet  deep  or  more.  It  was  out  of  repair,  and 
Jean  Jacques  called  in  a  master-carpenter  from 
Laplatte,  Masson  by  name — George  Masson — to 
put  the  flume  right." 

"How  long  ago  was  that?" 

"A  month  ago.  But  Masson  was  not  here  all  the 
time.  It  was  his  workmen  who  did  the  repairs,  but 
he  came  over  to  see — to  superintend.  At  first  he 
came  twice  in  the  week.  Then  he  came  every 
day." 

"Ah,  then  he  came  every  day !  How  do  you  know 
that?" 

62 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

"It  was  my  custom  to  walk  to  the  mill  every  day 
—to  watch  the  work  on  the  flume.  It  was  only  four 
miles  away  across  the  fields  and  through  the  woods, 
making  a  walk  of  much  charm — especially  in  the 
autumn  when  the  colours  of  the  foliage  are  so  fine, 
and  the  air  has  a  touch  of  pensiveness,  so  that  one 
is  induced  to  reflection." 

There  was  the  slightest  tinge  of  impatience  in  the 
Judge's  response.  "Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  You 
walked  to  study  life  and  to  reflect  and  to  enjoy  your 
intimacy  with  nature,  but  also  to  see  our  friend  Zoe 
and  her  home.  And  I  do  not  wonder.  She  has  a 
charm  which  makes  me  sad — for  her." 

"So  I  have  felt,  so  I  have  felt  for  her,  monsieur. 
When  she  is  gayest,  and  when,  as  it  might  seem,  I 
am  quite  happy,  talking  to  her,  or  picnicking,  or 
idling  on  the  river,  or  helping  her  with  her  lessons, 
I  have  sadness,  I  know  not  why." 

The  Judge  pressed  his  friend's  arm  firmly.  His 
voice  grew  more  insistent.  "Now,  Maitre  Fille,  I 
think  I  understand  the  story,  but  there  are  lacunas 
which  you  must  fill.  You  say  the  thing  happened 
three  days  ago — now,  when  will  the  work  be  fin- 
ished?" "  I 

"The  work  will  be  finished  to-morrow,  monsieur. 
Only  one  workman  is  left,  and  he  will  be  quit  of  his 
task  to-night." 

"So  the  thing — the  comedy  or  tragedy  will  come 
to  an  end  to-morrow?"  remarked  the  Judge  seri- 
ously. "How  did  you  find  out  that  the  workmen 
go  to-morrow,  maltre?" 

"Jean  Jacques — he  told  me  yesterday." 

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The  Money  Master 


"Then  it  all  ends  to-morrow,"  responded  the 
Judge. 

The  puzzled  subordinate  stood  almost  still,  and 
looked  at  the  Judge  in  wonder.  Why  should  it  all 
end  to-morrow  simply  because  the  work  was  fin- 
ished at  the  flume?  At  last  he  spoke. 

"It  is  only  twelve  miles  to  Laplatte  where  George 
Masson  lives,  and  he  has,  besides,  another  contract 
near  here,  but  three  miles  from  the  Manor  Cartier. 
Also  besides,  how  can  we  know  what  she  will  do — 
Jean  Jacques'  wife.  How  can  we  tell  but  that  she 
will  perhaps  go  and  leave  the  beloved  Zoe  alone!" 

"And  leave  our  little  philosopher-miller  also 
alone?"  remarked  the  Judge  quizzically,  yet  with 
solemnity. 

M.  Fille  was  agitated;  he  made  a  protesting 
gesture.  "Jean  Jacques  can  find  comfort,  but  the 
child — ah,  no,  it  is  too  terrible!  Someone  should 
speak.  I  tried  to  do  it — to  Madame  Carmen,  to 
Jean  Jacques;  but  it  was  no  use.  How  could  I 
betray  her  to  him,  how  could  I  tell  her  that  I  knew 
her  shame!" 

The  Judge  turned  brusquely  and  caught  his  friend 
by  the  shoulders,  fastening  him  with  the  eyes  which 
had  made  many  a  witness  forget  to  lie. 

"If  you  were  an  avocat  in  practice  I  would  ruin 
your  reputation,  Fille,"  he  said.  "A  fool  would  tell 
Jean  Jacques,  or  speak  to  the  woman,  and  spoil 
all;  for  women  go  mad  when  they  are  in  danger, 
and  they  do  the  impossible  things.  But  did  it  not 
occur  to  you  that  the  one  person  to  have  in  a  quiet 
room  with  the  doors  shut,  with  the  light  of  the  sun  in 

64 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

his  face,  with  the  book  of  the  law  open  on  your 
desk,  and  the  damages  to  be  got  by  an  injured  hus- 
band, in  a  Catholic  province  with  a  Catholic  Judge, 
written  down  on  a  piece  of  paper,  to  hand  over  at 
the  right  moment — did  it  not  strike  you  that  that 
person  was  your  George  Masson?" 

M.  Fille's  head  dropped  before  the  disdainful  eyes 
of  M.  Carcasson.  He  who  prided  himself  in  keeping 
the  court  right  on  points  of  procedure,  who  was 
looked  upon  almost  with  the  respect  given  the  posi- 
tion of  the  Judge  himself,  that  he  should  fail  in 
thinking  of  the  obvious  thing  was  humiliating,  and 
alas!  so  disconcerting. 

"I  am  a  fool,  an  imbecile,"  he  responded,  in  great 
dejection. 

"This  much  must  be  said,  my  imbecile,  that  every 
man  some  time  or  other  makes  just  such  a  fool  of  his 
intelligence,"  was  the  soft  reply. 

A  thin  hand  made  a  gesture  of  dissent.  ' '  Not  you, 
monsieur.  Never !' ' 

"If  it  is  any  comfort  to  you,  know  then,  my  Solon, 
that  I  have  done  so  publicly  in  my  time,  while  you 
have  only  done  it  privately.  But  let  us  see.  That 
Masson  must  be  struck  of  a  heap.  What  sort  of  a 
man  is  he  to  look  at?  Apart  from  his  morals,  what 
class  of  creature  is  he?" 

"He  is  a  man  of  strength,  of  force  in  his  way,  mon- 
sieur. He  made  himself  from  an  apprentice  without 
a  cent,  and  he  has  now  thirty  men  at  work." 

"Then  he  does  not  drink  or  gamble?" 

"Neither,  monsieur." 

"Has  he  a  family?" 

5  65 


The  Money  Master 


"No,  monsieur." 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"Forty  or  thereabouts,  monsieur." 

The  Judge  cogitated  for  a  moment,  then  said: 
"Ah,  that's  bad — unmarried  and  forty,  and  no  vices 
except  this.  It  gives  him  few  escape-valves.  Is  he 
good-looking?  What  is  his  appearance?" 

"Nor  short,  nor  tall,  and  square  shoulders.  His 
face  like  the  yellow  brown  of  a  peach,  hair  that  curls 
close  to  his  head,  blue  eyes  that  see  everything,  and  a 
big  hand  that  knows  what  it  is  doing." 

The  Judge  nodded.  "Ah,  you  have  watched 
him,  maitre.  .  .  .  When?  Since  then?" 

"No,  no,  monsieur,  not  since.  If  I  had  watched 
him  since,  I  should  perhaps  have  thought  of  the  right 
thing  to  do.  But  I  did  not.  I  used  to  study  him 
while  the  work  was  going  on,  when  he  first  came,  but 
I  have  known  him  some  time  from  a  distance.  If  a 
man  makes  himself  what  he  is,  you  look  at  him,  of 
course." 
*  "Truly.  His  temper — his  disposition,  what  is  it?" 

M.  Fille  was  very  much  alive  now.  He  replied 
briskly.  "Like  the  snap  of  a  whip.  He  flies  into 
anger  and  flies  out.  He  has  a  laugh  that  makes  men 
say,  'How  he  enjoys  himself!'  and  his  mind  is  very 
quick  and  sure." 

The  Judge  nodded  with  satisfaction.  "Well  done! 
Well  done!  I  have  got  him  in  my  eye.  He  will  not 
be  so  easy  to  handle;  but,  if  he  has  brains,  he  will 
see  that  you  have  the  right  end  of  the  stick ;  and  he 
will  kiss  and  ride  away.  It  will  not  be  easy,  but  the 
game  is  in  your  hands,  my  Fille.  In  a  quiet  room, 

66 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

with  the  book  of  the  law  open,  and  figures  of  dam- 
ages given  by  a  Catholic  court  and  Judge — I  think 
that  will  do  it ;  and  then  the  course  of  true  philosophy 
will  not  long  be  interrupted  in  the  house  of  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille." 

"Monsieur — monsieur  le  juge,  you  mean  that  I 
shall  do  this,  shall  see  George  Masson  and  warn 
him — me?" 

"Who  else?  You  are  a  friend  of  the  family.  You 
are  a  public  officer,  to  whom  the  good  name  of  your 
parish  is  dear.  As  all  are  aware,  no  doubt,  you  are 
the  trusted  ancient  comrade  of  the  daughter  of  the 
woman — I  speak  legally- — Carmen  Barbille  nee  Do- 
lores, a  name  of  charm  to  the  ear.  Who  but  you 
then  to  doit?" 

"There  is  yourself,  monsieur." 

"Dismiss  me  from  your  mind.  I  go  to  Quebec 
to-night,  as  you  know,  and  there  is  not  time;  but 
even  if  there  were,  I  should  not  be  the  best  person  to 
do  this.  I  am  known  to  few;  you  are  known  to 
all.  I  have  no  locus  standi.  You  have.  No,  no,  it 
would  not  be  for  me." 

Suddenly,  in  his  desperation,  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court  sought  release  for  himself  from  this  solemn 
and  frightening  duty. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said  eagerly,  "there  is  another.  I 
had  forgotten.  It  is  Madame  Carmen's  father, 
Sebastian  Dolores." 

"Ah,  a  father!  Yes,  I  had  forgotten  to  ask  about 
him;  so  we  are  one  in  our  imbecility,  my  little  Aris- 

This  Sebastian  Dolores,  where  is  he?" 
Jti  the  next  parish,  Beauharnais,  keeping  book? 


The  Money  Master 


for  a  lumber-firm.  Ah,  monsieur,  that  is  the  way  to 
deal  with  the  matter — through  Sebastian  Dolores, 
her  father!" 

"What  sort  is  he?" 

The  other  shook  his  head  and  did  not  answer. 

"Ah,  not  of  the  best?    Drinks?" 

M.  Fille  nodded. 

"Has  a  weak  character?" 

Again  M.  Fille  nodded. 

"Has  no  good  reputation  hereabouts?" 

The  nod  was  repeated.  "He  has  never  been 
steady.  He  goes  here  and  there,  but  always  he  comes 
back  to  get  Jean  Jacques'  help.  He  and  his  daugh- 
ter are  not  close  friends,  and  yet  he  likes  to  be  near 
her.  She  can  endure  him  at  least.  He  can  command 
her  interest.  He  is  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  and 
he  drifts  back  to  where  she  is  always.  But  that  is 
all." 

"Then  he  is  out  of  the  question,  and  he  would  be 
always  out  of  the  question  except  as  a  last  resort; 
for  sooner  or  later  he  would  tell  his  daughter,  and 
challenge  our  George  Masson  too;  and  that  is  what 
you  do  not  wish,  eh?" 

"Precisely  so,"  remarked  M.  Fille,  dropping  back 
again  into  gloom.  "To  be  quite  honest,  monsieur, 
even  though  it  gives  me  a  task  which  I  abhor,  I  do 
not  think  that  M.  Dolores  could  do  what  is  needed 
without  mistakes  which  could  not  be  mended.  At 
least  I  can—  He  stopped. 

The  Judge  interposed  at  once,  well  pleased  with  the 
way  things  were  going  for  this  "case."  "Assuredly. 
YOU  can  as  can  no  other,  my  Solon.  The  secret  of 

68 


The  clerk  of  the  court  ends  his  story 

success  in  such  things  is  a  good  heart,  a  right  mind, 
a  clear  intelligence  and  some  astuteness,  and  you  have 
it  all.  It  is  your  task  and  yours  only." 

The  little  man's  self-respect  seemed  restored.  He 
preened  himself  somewhat  and  bowed  to  the  Judge. 
"I  take  your  commands,  monsieur,  to  obey  them  as 
heaven  gives  me  power  so  to  do.  Shall  it  be  to- 
morrow?" 

The  Judge  reflected  a  moment,  then  said:  "To- 
night would  be  better,  but " 

"I  can  do  it  better  to-morrow  morning,"  inter- 
posed M.  Fille,  "for  George  Masson  has  a  meeting 
here  at  Vilray  with  the  avocat  Prideaux  at  ten 
o'clock  to  sign  a  contract,  and  I  can  ask  him  to  step 
into  my  office  on  a  little  affair  of  business.  He  will 
not  guess,  and  I  shall  be  armed" — the  Judge  frowned 
— "with  the  book  of  the  law  on  such  misdemeanours, 
and  the  figures  of  the  damages," — the  Judge  smiled — 
"and  I  think  perhaps  I  can  frighten  him  as  he  has 
never  been  frightened  before." 

A  courage  and  confidence  had  now  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  Clerk  in  strange  contrast  to  his  timidity 
and  childlike  manner  of  a  few  minutes  before.  He 
was  now  as  he  appeared  in  court,  clothed  with  an 
austere  authority  which  gave  him  a  vicarious  strength 
and  dignity.  The  Judge  had  done  his  work  well,  and 
he  was  of  those  folk  in  the  world  who  are  not  con- 
tent to  do  even  the  smallest  thing  ill. 

Arm  in  arm  they  passed  into  the  garden  which 
fronted  the  vine-covered  house,  where  Maitre  Fille 
lived  alone  with  his  sister,  a  tiny  edition  of  himself, 
who  whispered  and  smiled  her  way  through  life. 

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The  Money  Master 


She  smiled  and  whispered  now  in  welcome  to  the 
Judge;  and  as  she  did  so,  the  three  saw  Jean  Jacques 
laughing,  and  cracking  his  whip,  drive  past  with  his 
daughter  beside  him,  chirruping  to  the  horses; 
while,  moody  and  abstracted,  his  wife  sat  silent 
on  the  back-seat  of  the  red  wagon. 


CHAPTER  VI 

JEAN  JACQUES  HAD  HAD  A  GREAT  DAY 

JEAN  JACQUES  was  in  great  good  humour  as  he 
<J  drove  away  to  the  Manor  Cartier.  The  day, 
which  was  not  yet  aged,  had  been  satisfactory  from 
every  point  of  view.  He  had  impressed  the  Court, 
he  had  got  a  chance  to  pose  in  the  witness-box;  he 
had  been  able  to  repeat  in  evidence  the  numerous 
businesses  in  which  he  was  engaged;  had  referred 
to  his  acquaintance  with  the  Lieutenant-Governor 
and  a  Cardinal;  to  his  Grand  Tour  (this  had  been 
hard  to  do  in  the  cross-examination  to  which  he  was 
subjected,  but  he  had  done  it);  and  had  been  able 
to  say  at  the  very  start  in  reply  as  to  what  was  his 
occupation  —  "Moi — je  suis  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques, 
phiiosophe. ' ' 

Also  he  had,  during  the  day,  collected  a  debt  long 
since  wiped  off  his  books ;  he  had  traded  a  poor  horse 
for  a  good  cow;  he  had  bought  all  the  wheat  of  a 
Vilray  farmer  below  market-price,  because  the  poor 
fellow  needed  ready  money;  he  had  issued  an  in- 
surance policy ;  his  wife  and  daughter  had  conversed 
in  the  public  streets  with  the  great  judge  who  was 
the  doyen  of  the  provincial  Bench ;  and  his  daughter 
had  been  kissed  by  the  same  judge  in  the  presence 


The  Money  Master 


of  at  least  a  dozen  people.  He  was,  in  fact,  very 
proud  of  his  Carmen  and  his  Carmcncita,  as  he  called 
the  two  who  sat  in  the  red  wagon  sharing  his  glory- 
so  proud  that  he  did  not  extol  them  to  others;  and 
he  was  quite  sure  they  were  both  very  proud  of  him. 
The  world  saw  what  his  prizes  of  life  were,  and  there 
was  no  need  to  praise  or  brag.  Dignity  and  pride 
were  both  sustained  by  silence  and  a  wave  of  the 
hand,  which  in  fact  said  to  the  world,  "Look  you, 
my  masters,  they  belong  to  Jean  Jacques.  Take 
heed." 

There  his  domestic  scheme  practically  ended. 
He  was  so  busy  that  he  took  his  joys  by  snatches, 
in  moments  of  suspension  of  actual  life,  as  it  were. 
His  real  life  was  in  the  eddy  of  his  many  interests, 
in  the  field  of  his  superficial  culture,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  world.  The  worst  of  him  was  on  the  surface. 
He  showed  what  other  men  hid,  that  was  all.  Their 
vanity  was  concealed,  he  wore  it  in  his  cap.  They 
put  on  a  manner  as  they  put  on  their  clothes,  and 
wore  it  out  in  the  world,  or  took  it  off  in  their  own 
homes — behind  the  door  of  life ;  but  he  was  the  same 
vain,  frank,  cocksure  fellow  in  his  home  as  in  the 
street.  There  was  no  difference  at  all.  He  was 
vain,  but  he  had  no  conceit;  and  therefore  he  did 
not  deceive,  and  was  not  tyrannous  or  dictatorial; 
in  truth,  if  you  but  estimated  him  at  his  own  value, 
he  was  the  least  insistent  man  alive.  Many  a  debtor 
knew  this;  and,  by  asking  Jean  Jacques1  advice, 
making  an  appeal  to  his  logic,  as  it  were — and  it  was 
always  worth  listening  to,  even  when  wrong  or 
sadly  obvious,  because  of  the  glow  with  which  he 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

declared  things  this  or  that — found  his  situation 
immediately  eased.  Many  a  hard-up  country- 
man, casting  about  for  a  five-dollar  bill,  could  get 
it  of  Jean  Jacques  by  telling  him  what  agreeable 
thing  some  important  person  had  said  about  him; 
or  by  writing  to  a  great  newspaper  in  Montreal  a 
letter,  saying  that  the  next  candidate  for  the  pro- 
vincial legislature  should  be  M.  Jean  Jacques  Bar- 
bille,  of  St.  Saviour's.  This  never  failed  to  draw 
a  substantial  "bill "  from  the  wad  which  Jean  Jacques 
always  carried  in  his  pocket — loose,  not  tied  up  in  a 
leather  roll,  as  so  many  lesser  men  freighted  the 
burdens  of  their  wealth. 

He  had  changed  since  the  day  he  left  Bordeaux  on 
the  Antoine;  since  he  had  first  caught  the  flash  of 
interest  in  Carmen  Dolores'  eyes — an  interest  roused 
from  his  likeness  to  a  conspirator  who  had  been  shot 
for  his  country's  good.  He  was  no  stouter  in  body, 
for  he  was  of  the  kind  that  wear  away  the  flesh  by 
much  doing  and  thinking ;  but  there  were  occasional 
streaks  of  grey  in  his  bushy  hair,  and  his  eye  roamed 
less  than  it  did  once.  In  the  days  when  he  first 
brought  Carmen  home,  his  eye  was  like  a  bead  of 
brown  light  on  a  swivel.  It  flickered  and  flamed; 
it  saw  here,  saw  there;  it  twinkled,  and  it  pierced 
into  life's  mysteries;  and  all  the  while  it  was  a 
good  eye.  Its  whites  never  showed,  as  it  were.  As 
an  animal,  his  eye  showed  a  nature  free  from  vice. 
In  some  respects  he  was  easy  to  live  with,  for  he 
never  found  fault  with  what  was  given  him  to  eat, 
or  the  way  the  house  was  managed;  and  he  never 
interfered  with  the  "kitchen  people,"  or  refused  a 

73 


The  Money  Master 


dollar  or  ten  dollars  to  Carmen  for  finery.  In  fact, 
he  was  in  a  sense  too  lavish,  for  he  used  at  one  time 
to  bring  her  home  presents  of  silks  and  clothes  and 
toilet  things  and  stockings  and  hats,  which  were 
not  in  accord  with  her  taste,  and  only  vexed  her. 
Indeed,  she  resented  wearing  them,  and  could  hardly 
bring  herself  to  thank  him  for  them.  At  last,  how- 
ever, she  induced  him  to  let  her  buy  what  she  wanted 
with  the  presents  of  money  which  he  might  give  her. 

On  the  whole  Carmen  fared  pretty  well,  for  he 
would  sometimes  give  her  a  handful  of  bills  from 
his  pocket,  bidding  her  take  ten  dollars,  and  she 
would  coolly  take  twenty,  while  he  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  declared  she  would  be  his  ruin.  He 
had  never  repented  of  marrying  her,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  she  did  not  always  keep  house  as  his  mother 
and  grandmother  had  kept  it;  that  she  was  gravely 
remiss  in  going  to  mass;  and  that  she  quarrelled 
with  more  than  one  of  her  neighbours,  who  had  an 
idea  that  Spain  was  an  inferior  country  because  it 
was  south  of  France,  just  as  the  habitants  regarded 
the  United  States  as  a  low  and  inferior  country 
because  it  was  south  of  Quebec.  You  went  north 
towards  heaven  and  south  towards  hell,  in  their 
view;  but  when  they  went  so  far  as  to  patronize  or 
slander  Carmen,  she  drove  her  verbal  stilettos  home 
without  a  button;  so  that  on  one  occasion  there 
would  have  been  a  law-suit  for  libel  if  the  Old  Cure 
had  not  intervened.  To  Jean  Jacques'  credit,  be  it 
said,  he  took  his  wife's  part  on  this  occasion,  though 
in  his  heart  he  knew  that  she  was  in  the  wrong. 

He  certainly  was  not  always  in  the  right  himself. 

74 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

If  he  had  been  told  that  he  neglected  his  wife  he 
would  have  been  justly  indignant.  Also,  it  never 
occurred  to  him  that  a  woman  did  not  always  want 
to  talk  philosophy  or  discuss  the  price  of  wheat  or 
the  cost  of  flour-barrels;  and  that  for  a  man  to  be 
stupidly  and  foolishly  fond  was  dearer  to  a  woman 
than  anything  else.  How  should  he  know — yet  he 
ought  to  have  done  so,  if  he  really  was  a  philosopher 
—that  a  woman  would  want  the  cleverest  man  in  the 
world  to  be  a  boy  and  play  the  fool  sometimes;  that 
she  would  rather,  if  she  was  a  healthy  woman,  go  to 
a  circus  than  to  a  revelation  of  the  mysteries  of  the 
mind  from  an  attar  of  culture,  if  her  own  beloved 
man  was  with  her. 

Carmen  had  been  left  too  much  alone,  as  M.  Fille 
had  said  to  Judge  Carcasson.  Her  spirits  had  mo- 
ments of  great  dullness,  when  she  was  ready  to  fling 
herself  into  the  river — or  the  arms  of  the  school- 
master or  the  farrier.  When  she  first  came  to  St. 
Saviour's,  the  necessity  of  adapting  herself  to  the 
new  conditions,  of  keeping  faith  with  herself,  which 
she  had  planned  on  the  Antoine,  and  making  a  good 
wife  to  the  man  who  was  to  solve  all  her  problems 
for  her,  prevailed.  She  did  not  at  first  miss  so  much 
the  life  of  excitement,  of  danger,  of  intrigue,  of 
romance,  of  colour  and  variety,  which  she  had  left 
behind  in  Spain.  When  her  child  was  born,  she 
became  passionately  fond  of  it;  her  maternal  spirit 
smothered  it.  It  gave  the  needed  excitement  in  the 
routine  of  life  at  St.  Saviour's. 

Yet  the  interest  was  not  permanent.  There  came 
a  time  when  she  resented  the  fact  that  Jean  Jacques 

75 


The  Money  Master 


made  more  of  the  child  than  he  did  of  herself.  That 
was  a  bad  day  for  all  concerned,  for  dissimulation 
presently  became  necessary,  and  the  home  of  Jean 
Jacques  was  a  home  of  mystery  which  no  philosophy 
could  interpret.  There  had  never  been  but  the  one 
child.  She  was  not  less  handsome  than  when  Jean 
Jacques  married  her  and  brought  her  home,  though 
the  bloom  of  maiden  youthfulness  was  no  longer 
there;  and  she  certainly  was  a  cut  far  above  the 
habitant  women  or  even  the  others  of  a  higher  social 
class,  in  a  circle  which  had  an  area  equal  to  a  prin- 
cipality in  Europe. 

The  Old  Cur6,  M.  Lancon,  had  had  much  in- 
fluence over  her,  for  few  could  resist  the  amazing 
personal  influence  which  his  rare  pure  soul  secured 
over  the  worst.  It  was  a  sad  day  to  her  when  he 
went  to  his  long  home ;  and  inwardly  she  felt  a  greater 
loss  than  she  had  ever  felt  save  that  once  when  her 
Carvillho  Gonzales  went  the  way  of  the  traitor. 
Memories  of  her  past  life  far  behind  in  Madrid  did 
not  grow  fainter;  indeed,  they  grew  more  distinct 
as  the  years  went  on.  They  seemed  to  vivify,  as 
her  discontent  and  restlessness  grew. 

Once,  when  there  had  come  to  St.  Saviour's  a 
middle-aged  baron  from  Paris  who  had  heard  the 
fishing  was  good  at  St.  Saviour's,  and  talked  to  her 
of  Madrid  and  Barcelona,  Cordova  and  Toledo,  as 
one  who  had  seen  and  known  and  (he  declared) 
loved  them;  who  painted  for  her  in  splashing  im- 
pressionist pictures  the  life  that  still  eddied  in  the 
plazas  and  dreamed  in  the  patios,  she  had  been  al- 
most carried  off  her  feet  with  longing ;  and  she  near- 

76 


ly  gave  that  longing  an  expression  which  would  have 
brought  a  tragedy,  while  still  her  Zoe  was  only  eight 
years  old.  But  M.  Langon,  the  wise  priest  whose 
eyes  saw  and  whose  heart  understood,  had  inter- 
vened in  time;  and  she  never  knew  that  the  sudden 
disappearance  of  the  Baron,  who  still  owed  fifty 
dollars  to  Jean  Jacques,  was  due  to  the  practical 
wisdom  of  a  great  soul  which  had  worked  out  its 
own  destiny  in  a  little  back  garden  of  the  world. 

When  this  good  priest  was  alive  she  felt  she  had 
a  friend  who  was  as  large  of  heart  as  he  was  just, 
and  who  would  not  scorn  the  fool  according  to  his 
folly,  or  chastise  the  erring  after  his  deserts.  In 
his  greatness  of  soul  Pere  Lancon  had  shut  his  eyes 
to  things  that  pained  him  more  than  they  shocked 
him,  for  he  had  seen  life  in  its  most  various  and 
demoralized  forms,  and  indeed  had  had  his  own 
temptations  when  he  lived  in  Belgium  and  France, 
before  he  had  finally  decided  to  become  a  priest. 
He  had  protected  Carmen  with  a  quiet  persistency 
since  her  first  day  in  the  parish,  and  had  had  a  sav- 
ing influence  over  her.  Pere  Lancon  reproved  those 
who  criticized  her  and  even  slandered  her,  for  it 
was  evident  to  all  that  she  would  rather  have  men 
talk  to  her  than  women;  and  any  summer  visitor 
who  came  to  fish,  gave  her  an  attention  never  given 
even  to  the  youngest  and  brightest  in  the  district; 
and  the  eyes  of  the  habitant  lass  can  be  very  bright 
at  twenty.  Yet  whatever  Carmen's  coquetry  and 
her  sport  with  fire  had  been,  her  own  emotions  had 
never  been  really  involved  till  now. 

The  new  cure,  M-  Savry,  would  have  said  they 

77 


The  Money  Master 


were  involved  now  because  she  never  came  to  con- 
fession, and  indeed,  since  the  Old  Cur6  died,  she  had 
seldom  gone  to  mass.  Yet  when,  with  accumulated 
reproof  on  his  tongue,  M.  Savry  did  come  to  the 
Manor  Cartier,  he  felt  the  inherent  supremacy  of 
beauty,  not  the  less  commanding  because  it  had  not 
the  refinement  of  the  duchess  or  the  margravine. 

Once  M.  Savry  ventured  to  do  what  the  Old  Cure 
would  never  have  done — he  spoke  to  Jean  Jacques 
concerning  Carmen's  neglect  of  mass  and  confession, 
and  he  received  a  rebuff  which  was  almost  au 
seigneur;  for  in  Jean  Jacques'  eyes  he  was  now  the 
figure  in  St.  Saviour's;  and  this  was  an  occasion 
when  he  could  assert  his  position  as  premier  of  the 
secular  world  outside  the  walls  of  the  parish  church. 
He  did  it  in  good  style  for  a  man  who  had  had  no 
particular  training  in  the  social  arts. 

This  is  how  he  did  it  and  what  he  said: 

"There  have  been  times  when  I  myself  have 
thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to  have  a  rest 
from  the  duties  of  a  Catholic,  m'sieu'  le  cure,"  he 
remarked  to  M.  Savry,  when  the  latter  had  ended 
his  criticism.  He  said  it  with  an  air  of  conflict, 
and  with  full  intent  to  make  his  supremacy  complete. 

"No  Catholic  should  speak  like  that,"  returned 
the  shocked  priest. 

"No  priest  should  speak  to  me  as  you  have  done," 
rejoined  Jean  Jacques.  "What  do  you  know  of  the 
reasons  for  the  abstention  of  madame?  The  soul 
must  enjoy  rest  as  well  as  the  body,  and  madame 
has  a  mind  which  can  judge  for  itself.  I  have  a 
body  that  is  always  going,  and  it  gets  too  little  rest, 

78 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

and  that  keeps  my  soul  in  a  flutter  too.  It  must  be 
getting  to  mass  and  getting  to  confession,  and  say- 
ing aves  and  doing  penance,  it  is  such  a  busy  little 
soul  of  mine;  but  we  are  not  all  alike,  and  ma- 
dame's  body  goes  in  a  more  stately  way.  I  am  like 
a  comet,  she  is  like  the  sun — steady,  steady,  round 
and  round,  with  plenty  of  sleep  and  the  comfortable 
darkness.  Sometimes  madame  goes  hard;  so  does 
the  sun  in  summer — shines,  shines,  shines  like  a  fur- 
nace. Madame's  body  goes  like  that — at  the  dairy, 
in  the  garden,  with  the  loom,  among  the  fowls, 
growing  her  strawberries,  keeping  the  women  at  the 
beating  of  the  flax;  and  then  again  it  is  all  still  and 
idle  like  the  sun  on  a  cloudy  day;  and  it  rests.  So 
it  is  with  the  human  soul — I  am  a  philosopher — I 
think  the  soul  goes  hard  the  same  as  the  body, 
churning,  churning  away  in  the  heat  of  the  sun; 
and  then  it  gets  quiet  and  goes  to  sleep  in  the  cloudy 
day,  when  the  body  is  sick  of  its  bouncing,  and  it 
has  a  rest — the  soul  has  a  rest,  which  is  good  for  it, 
m'sieu'.  I  have  worked  it  all  out  so.  Besides,  the 
soul  of  madame  is  her  own.  I  have  not  made  any 
claim  upon  it,  and  I  will  not  expect  you  to  do  more, 
m'sieu'  le  cure." 

"It  is  my  duty  to  speak,"  protested  the  good 
priest.  "Her  soul  is  God's,  and  I  am  God's  vi- 
car- 
Jean  Jacques  waved  a  hand.  "T'sh,  you  are 
not  the  Pope.  You  are  not  even  an  abbe.  You 
were  only  a  deacon  a  few  years  ago.  You  did  not 
know  how  to  hold  a  baby  for  the  christening  when 
you  came  to  St.  Saviour's  first.  For  the  mass,  you 

79 


The  Money  Master 


have  some  right  to  speak;  it  is  your  duty  perhaps; 
but  the  confession,  that  is  another  thing;  that  is 
the  will  of  every  soul  to  do  or  not  to  do.  What  do 
you  know  of  a  woman's  soul — well,  perhaps,  you 
know  what  they  have  told  you;  but  madame's 
soul— 

"Madame  has  never  been  to  confession  to  me," 
interjected  M.  Savry  indignantly.  Jean  Jacques 
chuckled.  He  had  his  New  Cur6  now  for  sure. 

"Confession  is  for  those  who  have  sinned.  Is  it 
that  you  say  one  must  go  to  confession,  and  in  order 
to  go  to  confession  it  is  needful  to  sin?" 

M.  Savry  shivered  with  pious  indignation.  He 
had  a  sudden  desire  to  rend  this  philosophic  Catholic 
—to  put  him  under  the  thumb-screw  for  the  glory 
of  the  Lord,  and  to  justify  the  Church;  but  the 
little  Catholic  miller-magnate  gave  freely  to  St. 
Saviour's;  he  was  popular;  he  had  a  position,  he 
was  good  to  the  poor;  and  every  Christmas-time  he 
sent  a  half-dozen  bags  of  flour  to  the  presbytery! 

All  Pere  Savry  ventured  to  say  in  reply  was: 
"Upon  your  head  be  it,  M.  Jean  Jacques.  I  have 
done  my  duty.  I  shall  hope  to  see  madame  at  mass 
next  Sunday." 

Jean  Jacques  had  chuckled  over  that  episode, 
for  he  had  conquered;  he  had  shown  M.  Savry  that 
he  was  master  in  his  own  household  and  outside  it. 
That  much  his  philosophy  had  done  for  him.  No 
other  man  in  the  parish  would  have  dared  to  speak 
to  the  Cur6  like  that.  He  had  never  scolded  Car- 
men when  she  had  not  gone  to  church.  Besides, 
there  was  Carmen's  little  daughter  always  at  his 

80 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

side  at  mass;  and  Carmen  always  insisted  on  Zoe 
going  with  him,  and  even  seemed  anxious  for  them 
to  be  off  at  the  first  sound  of  the  bells  of  St.  Saviour's. 
Their  souls  were  busy,  hers  wanted  rest;  that  was 
clear.  He  was  glad  he  had  worked  it  out  so  cleverly 
to  the  Cure — and  to  his  own  mind.  His  philosophy 
surely  had  vindicated  itself. 

But  Jean  Jacques  was  far  from  thinking  of  these 
things  as  he  drove  back  from  Vilray  and  from  his 
episode  in  Court  to  the  Manor  Cartier.  He  was 
indeed  just  praising  himself,  his  wife,  his  child,  and 
everything  that  belonged  to  him.  He  was  planning, 
planning,  as  he  talked,  the  new  things  to  do — the 
cheese-factory,  the  purchase  of  a  steam-plough  and 
a  steam-thresher  which  he  could  hire  out  to  his 
neighbours.  Only  once  during  the  drive  did  he 
turn  round  to  Carmen,  and  then  it  was  to  ask  her 
if  she  had  seen  her  father  of  late. 

"Not  for  ten  months,"  was  her  reply.  "Why 
do  you  ask?" 

"Wouldn't  he  like  to  be  nearer  you  and  Zoe? 
It's  twelve  miles  to  Beauharnais,"  he  replied. 

"Are  you  thinking  of  offering  him  another  place 
at  the  Manor?"  she  asked  sharply. 

"Well,  there  is  the  new  cheese-factory — not  to 
manage,  but  to  keep  the  books!  He's  doing  them 
all  right  for  the  lumber-firm.  I  hear  that  he — 

"I  don't  want  it.  No  good  comes  from  relatives 
working  together.  Look  at  the  Latouche  farm 
where  your  cousin  makes  his  mess.  My  father  is 
well  enough  where  he  is." 

6  81 


The  Money  Master 


"But  you'd  like  to  see  him  oftener — I  was  only 
thinking  of  that,"  said  Jean  Jacques  in  a  mollifying 
voice.  It  was  the  kind  of  thing  in  which  he  showed 
at  once  the  weakness  and  the  kindness  of  his  nature. 
He  was  in  fact  not  a  philosopher,  but  a  sentimentalist. 

"If  mother  doesn't  think  it's  sensible,  why  do  it, 
father?"  asked  Zo6  anxiously,  looking  up  into  her 
father's  face. 

She  had  seen  the  look  in  her  mother's  eyes,  and 
also  she  had  no  love  for  her  grandfather.  Her  in- 
stinct had  at  one  time  wavered  regarding  him;  but 
she  had  seen  an  incident  with  a  vanished  female 
cook,  and  though  she  had  not  understood,  a  prejudice 
had  been  created  in  her  mind.  She  was  always  con- 
trasting him  with  M.  Fille,  who,  to  her  mind,  was 
what  a  grandfather  ought  to  be. 

"I  won't  have  him  beholden  to  you,"  said  Carmen, 
almost  passionately. 

"He  is  of  my  family,"  said  Jean  Jacques  firmly 
and  chivalrously.  "There  is  no  question  of  being 
beholden." 

"Let  well  enough  alone,"  was  the  gloomy  reply. 

With  a  sigh,  Jean  Jacques  turned  back  to  the 
study  of  the  road  before  him,  to  gossip  with  Zoe, 
and  to  keep  on  planning  subconsciously  the  new 
things  he  must  do. 

Carmen  sighed  too,  or  rather  she  gave  a  gasp  of 
agitation  and  annoyance.  Her  father  ?  She  had  lost 
whatever  illusion  once  existed  regarding  him.  For 
years  he  had  clung  to  her — to  her  pocket.  He  was 
given  to  drinking  in  past  years,  and  he  still  had  his 
sprees.  Like  the  rest  of  the  world  she  had  not  in 

82 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

earlier  years  seen  the  furtiveness  in  his  handsome 
face;  but  at  last,  as  his  natural  viciousness  became 
stereotyped,  and  bad  habits  matured  and  empha- 
sized, she  saw  beneath  his  mask  of  low-class  comeli- 
ness. When  at  last  she  had  found  it  necessary  to 
dismiss  the  best  cook  she  ever  had,  because  of  him, 
they  saw  little  of  each  other.  This  was  coincident 
with  his  failure  at  the  ash-factory,  where  he  mis- 
managed and  even  robbed  Jean  Jacques  right  and 
left;  and  she  had  firmly  insisted  on  Jean  Jacques 
evicting  him,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  not  Sebastian 
Dolores'  bent  to  manage  a  business. 

This  little  episode,  as  they  drove  home  from  Vilray, 
had  an  unreasonable  effect  upon  her. 

It  was  like  the  touch  of  a  finger  which  launches  a 
boat  balancing  in  the  ways  onto  the  deep.  It  tossed 
her  on  a  sea  of  agitation.  She  was  swept  away  on  a 
flood  of  morbid  reflection. 

Her  husband  and  her  daughter,  laughing  and  talk- 
ing in  the  front  seat  of  the  red  wagon,  seemed  quite 
oblivious  of  her,  and  if  ever  there  was  a  time  when 
their  influence  was  needed  it  was  now.  George  Mas- 
son  was  coming  over  late  this  afternoon  to  inspect 
the  work  he  had  been  doing;  and  she  was  trembling 
with  an  agitation  which,  however,  did  not  show 
upon  the  surface.  She  had  not  seen  him  for  two 
days — since  the  day  after  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
had  discovered  her  in  the  arms  of  a  man  who  was 
not  her  husband;  but  he  was  coming  this  evening, 
and  he  was  coming  to-morrow  for  the  last  time; 
for  the  repair  work  on  the  flume  of  the  dam  would 
all  be  finished  then, 

83 


The  Money  Master 


But  would  the  work  he  had  been  doing  all  be  finished 
then?  As  she  thought  of  that  incident  of  three  days 
ago  and  of  its  repetition  on  the  following  day,  she 
remembered  what  he  had  said  to  her  as  she  snatched 
herself  almost  violently  from  his  arms,  in  a  sudden 
access  of  remorse.  He  had  said  that  it  had  to  be, 
that  there  was  no  escape  now;  and  at  his  words  she 
had  felt  every  pulse  in  her  body  throbbing,  every 
vein  expanding  with  a  hot  life  which  thrilled  and 
tortured  her.  Life  had  been  so  meagre  and  so  dull, 
and  the  man  who  had  worshipped  her  on  the  Antoine 
now  worshipped  himself  only,  and  also  Zoe,  the  child, 
maybe;  or  so  she  thought;  while  the  man  who  had 
once  possessed  her  whole  mind  and  whole  heart,  and 
never  her  body,  back  there  in  Spain,  he,  Carvillho 
Gonzales,  would  have  loved  her  to  the  end,  in  scenes 
where  life  had  colour  and  passion  and  danger  and 
delightful  movement. 

She  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals  who  believe 
that  the  dead  and  gone  lover  was  perfect,  and  that  in 
losing  him  she  was  losing  all  that  life  had  in  store; 
but  the  bare,  hard  truth  was  that  her  Gonzales 
could  have  been  true  neither  to  her  nor  to  any  woman 
in  the  world  for  longer  than  one  lingering  year,  per- 
haps one  lunar  month.  It  did  not  console  her— she 
did  not  think  of  it — that  the  little  man  on  the  seat 
of  the  red  wagon,  chirruping  with  their  daughter,  had 
been,  would  always  be,  true  to  her.  Of  what  good 
was  fidelity  if  he  that  was  faithful  desired  no  longer 
as  he  once  did? 

A  keen  observer  would  have  seen  in  the  glowing, 
unrestful  look,  in  the  hot  cheek,  in  the  interlacing 

84 


Jean  Jacques  had  had  a  great  day 

fingers,  that  a  contest  was  going  on  in  the  woman's 
soul,  as  she  drove  homeward  with  all  that  was  her 
own  in  the  world.  The  laughter  of  her  husband  and 
child  grated  painfully  on  her  ears.  Why  should 
they  be  mirthful  while  her  life  was  being  swept  by 
a  storm  of  doubt,  temptation,  and  dark  passion? 
Why  was  it? 

Yet  she  smiled  at  Jean  Jacques  when  he  lifted  her 
down  from  the  red  wagon  at  the  door  of  the  Manor 
Cartier,  even  though  he  lifted  his  daughter  down  first. 

Did  she  smile  at  Jean  Jacques  because,  as  they 
came  towards  the  Manor,  she  saw  George  Masson  in 
the  distance  by  the  flume,  and  in  that  moment  de- 
cided to  keep  her  promise  and  meet  him  at  a  secluded 
point  on  the  river-bank  at  sunset  after  supper? 


CHAPTER  VII 

JEAN   JACQUES   AWAKES    FROM    SLEEP 

THE  pensiveness  of  a  summer  evening  on  the 
Beau  Cheval  was  like  a  veil  hung  over  all  the 
world.  While  yet  the  sun  was  shining,  there  was  the 
tremor  of  life  in  the  sadness;  but  when  the  last  glint 
of  amethyst  and  gold  died  away  behind  Mont  Violet, 
and  the  melancholy  swish  of  the  river  against  the 
osiered  banks  rose  out  of  the  windless  dusk,  all  the 
region  around  Manor  Cartier,  with  its  cypresses,  its 
firs,  its  beeches,  and  its  elms,  became  gently  tristc. 
Even  the  weather-vane  on  the  Manor — the  gold 
Cock  of  Beaugard,  as  it  was  called — did  not  move; 
and  the  stamping  of  a  horse  in  the  stable  was  like  the 
thunderous  knock  of  a  traveller  from  Beyond.  The 
white  mill  and  the  grey  manor  stood  out  with  ghostly 
vividness  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon.  Yet  there 
were  times  innumerable  when  they  looked  like  cool 
retreats  for  those  who  wanted  rest;  when,  in  the 
summer  solstice,  they  offered  the  pleasant  peace  of 
the  happy  fireside.  How  often  had  Jean  Jacques 
stood  off  from  it  all  of  a  summer  night  and  said  to 
himself:  "Look  at  that,  my  Jean  Jacques.  It  is  all 
yours,  Manor  and  mills  and  farms  and  factory — all." 
"Growing,  growing,  fattening,  while  I  drone  in 

86 


Jean  Jacques  awakes  from  sleep 

my  feather  bed,"  he  had  as  often  said,  with  the  de- 
lighted observation  of  the  philosopher.  "And  me 
but  a  young  man  yet — but  a  mere  boy,"  he  would 
add.  ' '  I  have  piled  it  up — I  have  piled  it  up,  and  it 
keeps  on  growing,  first  one  thing  and  then  another." 

Could  such  a  man  be  unhappy?  Finding  within 
himself  his  satisfaction,  his  fountain  of  appeasement, 
why  should  not  his  days  be  days  of  pleasantness  and 
peace?  So  it  appeared  to  him  during  that  summer 
just  passed  when  he  had  surveyed  the  World  and 
his  world  within  the  World,  and  it  seemed  to  his 
innocent  mind  that  he  himself  had  made  it  all. 
There  he  was,  not  far  beyond  forty,  and  eligible  to 
become  a  member  of  Parliament,  or  even  a  count  of 
the  Holy  Roman  Empire!  He  had  thought  of  both 
these  honours,  but  there  was  so  much  to  occupy  him 
—he  never  had  a  moment  to  himself,  except  at  night ; 
and  then  there  was  planning  and  accounting  to  do, 
his  foremen  to  see,  or  some  knotty  thing  to  disen- 
tangle. But  when  the  big  clock  in  the  Manor  struck 
ten,  and  he  took  out  his  great  antique  silver  watch, 
to  see  if  the  two  marched  to  the  second,  he  would  go 
to  the  door,  look  out  into  the  night,  say,  "All's  well, 
thank  the  good  God,"  and  would  go  to  bed,  very 
often  forgetting  to  kiss  Carmen,  and  even  forgetting 
his  darling  little  Zoe. 

After  all,  a  mind  has  to  be  very  big  and  to  have 
very  many  tentacles  to  hold  so  many  things  all  at 
once,  and  also  to  remember  to  do  the  right  thing  at 
the  right  moment  every  time.  He  would  even  forget 
to  ask  Carmen  to  play  on  the  guitar,  which  in  the 
first  days  of  their  married  life  was  the  recreation  of 

87 


The  Money  Master 


every  evening.  Seldom  with  the  later  years  had  he 
asked  her  to  sing,  because  he  was  so  busy;  and  some- 
how his  ear  had  not  that  keenness  of  sound  once  be- 
longing to  it.  There  was  a  time  when  he  himself 
was  wont  to  sing,  when  he  taught  his  little  Zoe  the 
tunes  of  the  Chansons  Canadiennes;  but  even  that 
had  dropped  away,  except  at  rare  intervals  when  he 
would  sing  Le  Petit  Roger  Bontemps,  with  Petite  Fleur 
de  Bois,  and  a  dozen  others;  but  most  he  would  sing 
—indeed  there  was  never  a  sing-song  in  the  Manor 
Cartier  but  he  would  burst  forth  with  A  la  Claire 
Fontaine  and  its  haunting  refrain: 

"II  y  a  longtemps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublidrai." 

But  this  very  summer,  when  he  had  sung  it  on  the 
birthday  of  the  little  Zo6,  his  voice  had  seemed  out 
of  tune.  At  first  he  had  thought  that  Carmen  was 
playing  his  accompaniment  badly  on  the  guitar,  but 
she  had  sharply  protested  against  that,  and  had 
appealed  to  M.  Fille,  who  was  present  at  the  pretty 
festivity.  He  had  told  the  truth,  as  a  Clerk  of  the 
Court  should.  He  said  that  Jean  Jacques'  voice 
was  not  as  he  had  so  often  heard  it;  but  he  would 
also  frankly  admit  that  he  did  not  think  Madame 
played  the  song  as  he  had  heard  her  play  it  afore- 
time, and  that  covered  indeed  twelve  years  or  more 
— in  fact,  since  the  birth  of  the  renowned  Zo£. 

M.  Fille  had  wondered  much  that  night  of  June  at 
the  listless  manner  and  listless  playing  of  Carmen 
Barbille.  For  a  woman  of  such  spirit  and  fire  it 
would  seem  as  though  she  must  be  in  ill-health  to 


Jean  Jacques  awakes  from  sleep 

play  like  that.  Yet  when  he  looked  at  her  he  saw 
only  the  comeliness  of  a  woman  whom  the  life  of  the 
haut  habitant  had  not  destroyed  or,  indeed,  dimmed. 
Her  skin  was  smooth,  she  had  no  wrinkles,  and  her 
neck  was  a  pillar  of  softly  moulded  white  flesh, 
around  which  a  man  might  well  string  unset  jewels, 
if  he  had  them;  for  the  tint  and  purity  of  her  skin 
would  be  a  better  setting  than  platinum  or  fine  gold. 
But  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  really  unsophisticated, 
or  he  would  have  seen  that  Carmen  played  the  guitar 
badly  because  she  was  not  interested  in  Jean  Jacques' 
singing.  He  would  have  known  that  she  had  come 
to  that  stage  in  her  married  life  when  the  tenure  is 
pitifully  insecure.  He  would  have  seen  that  the 
crisis  was  near.  If  he  had  had  any  real  observation 
he  would  have  noticed  that  Carmen's  eyes  at  once 
kindled,  and  that  the  guitar  became  a  different 
thing,  when  M.  Colombin,  the  young  schoolmaster, 
one  of  the  guests,  caught  up  the  refrain  of  A  la  Claire 
Fontaine,  and  in  a  soft  tenor  voice  sang  it  with  Jean 
Jacques  to  the  end,  and  then  sang  it  again  with  Zoe. 
Then  Carmen's  dark  eyes  deepened  with  the  gather- 
ing light  in  them,  her  body  seemed  to  vibrate  and 
thrill  with  emotion;  and  when  M.  Colombin  and 
Zoe  ceased,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  distance,  and 
as  though  unconscious  of  them  all,  she  began  to 
sing  a  song  of  Cadiz  which  she  had  not  sung  since 
boarding  the  Antoine  at  Bordeaux.  Her  mind  had 
suddenly  flown  back  out  of  her  dark  discontent  to 
the  days  when  all  life  was  before  her,  and,  with  her 
Gonzales,  she  had  moved  in  an  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance, adventure  and  passion. 

89 


The  Money  Master 


In  a  second  she  was  transformed  from  the  wife  of 
the  brown  money-master  to  the  girl  she  was  when 
she  came  to  St.  Saviour's  from  the  plaza,  where  her 
Carvillho  Gonzales  was  shot,  with  love  behind  her 
and  memory  blazoned  in  the  red  of  martyrdom. 
She  sang  now  as  she  had  not  sung  for  some  years. 
Her  guitar  seemed  to  leap  into  life,  her  face  shone 
with  the  hot  passion  of  memory,  her  voice  rang  with 
the  pain  of  a  disappointed  life : 

"Granada,  Granada,  thy  gardens  are  gay, 
And  bright  are  thy  stars,  the  high  stars  above; 

But  as  flowers  that  fade  and  are  grey, 

But  as  dusk  at  the  end  of  the  day, 
Are  ye  to  the  light  in  the  eyes  of  my  love — 
In  the  eyes,  in  the  soul,  of  my  love. 

"Granada,  Granada,  oh,  when  shall  I  see 
My  love  in  thy  gardens,  there  waiting  for  me? 

"Beloved,  beloved,  have  pity,  and  make 
Not  the  sun  shut  its  eyes,  its  hot  envious  eyes, 

And  the  world  in  the  darkness  of  night 

Be  debtor  to  thee  for  its  light. 
Turn  thy  face,  turn  thy  face  from  the  skies 
To  the  love,  to  the  pain  in  my  eyes. 

"Granada,  Granada,  oh,  when  shall  I  see 
My  love  in  thy  gardens,  there  waiting  for  me!" 

From  that  night  forward  she  had  been  restless 
and  petulant  and  like  one  watching  and  waiting. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  fly  from  the  life 
which  was  choking  her.  It  was  all  so  petty  and  so 
small.  People  went  about  sneaking  into  other 

90 


Jean  Jacques  awakes  from  sleep 

people's  homes  like  detectives;  they  turned  yellow 
and  grew  scrofulous  from  too  much  salt  pork,  green 
tea,  native  tobacco,  and  the  heat  of  feather  beds. 
The  making  of  a  rag  carpet  was  an  event,  the  birth 
of  a  baby  every  year  till  the  woman  was  forty-five 
was  a  commonplace;  but  the  exit  of  a  youth  to  a 
seminary  to  become  a  priest,  or  the  entrance  to 
the  novitiate  of  a  young  girl,  were  matters  as  im- 
portant as  a  battle  to  Napoleon  the  Great. 

How  had  she  gone  through  it  all  so  long,  she  asked 
herself?  The  presence  of  Jean  Jacques  had  become 
almost  unbearable  when,  the  day  done,  he  retired  to 
the  feather  bed  which  she  loathed,  though  he  would 
have  looked  upon  discarding  it  like  the  abdication 
of  his  social  position.  A  feather  bed  was  a  sign  of 
social  position ;  it  was  as  much  the  dais  to  his  honour 
as  is  the  woolsack  to  the  Lord  Chancellor  in  the 
House  of  Lords. 

She  was  waiting  for  something.  There  was  a  rest- 
less, vagrant  spirit  alive  in  her  now.  She  had  been 
so  long  inactive,  tied  by  the  leg,  with  wings  clipped ; 
now  her  mind  roamed  into  pleasant  places  of  the 
imagination  where  life  had  freedom,  where  she  could 
renew  the  impulses  of  youth.  A  true  philosopher — 
a  man  of  the  world — would  have  known  for  what  she 
was  waiting  with  that  vague,  disordered  expectancy 
and  yearning;  but  there  was  no  man  of  the  world  to 
watch  and  guide  her  this  fateful  summer,  when  things 
began  to  go  irretrievably  wrong. 

Then  George  Masson  came.  He  was  a  man  of  the 
world  in  his  way;  he  saw  and  knew  better  than  the 


The  Money  Master 


philosopher  of  the  Manor  Cartier.  He  grasped  the 
situation  with  the  mind  of  an  artist  in  his  own  sphere, 
and  with  the  knowledge  got  by  experience.  Thus 
there  had  been  the  thing  which  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
saw  from  Mont  Violet  behind  the  Manor;  and  so  it 
was  that  as  Jean  Jacques  helped  Carmen  down  from 
the  red  wagon  on  their  return  from  Vilray,  she  gave 
him  a  smile  which  was  meant  to  deceive ;  for  though 
given  to  him  it  was  really  given  to  another  man  in 
her  mind's  eye.  At  sunset  she  gave  it  again  to 
George  Masson  on  the  river-bank,  only  warmer  and 
brighter  still,  with  eyes  that  were  burning,  with 
hands  that  trembled,  and  with  an  agitated  bosom 
more  delicately  ample  than  it  was  on  the  day  the 
Anioine  was  wrecked. 

Neither  of  these  two  adventurers  into  a  wild  world 
of  feeling  noticed  that  a  man  was  sitting  on  a  little 
knoll  under  a  tree,  not  far  away  from  their  meeting- 
place,  busy  with  pencil  and  paper. 

It  was  Jean  Jacques,  who  had  also  come  to  the 
river-bank  to  work  out  a  business  problem  which 
must  be  settled  on  the  morrow.  He  had  stolen  out 
immediately  after  supper  from  neighbours  who 
wished  to  see  him,  and  had  come  here  by  a  round- 
about way,  because  he  wished  to  be  alone. 

George  Masson  and  Carmen  were  together  for  a 
few  moments  only,  but  Jean  Jacques  heard  his  wife 
say,  "Yes,  to-morrow — for  sure,"  and  then  he  saw 
her  kiss  the  master-carpenter — kiss  him  twice, 
thrice.  After  which  they  vanished,  she  in  one 
direction,  and  the  invader  and  marauder  in  another. 

If  these  two  had  seen  the  face  of  the  man  with  a 

92 


Jean  Jacques  awakes  from  sleep 

pencil  and  paper  under  the  spreading  beech-tree, 
they  would  not  have  been  so  impatient  for  to- 
morrow, and  Carmen  would  not  have  said  "for 
sure." 

Jean  Jacques  was  awake  at  last,  man  as  well  as 
philosopher. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    GATE    IN    THE    WALL 

JEAN  JACQUES  was  not  without  originality  of  a 
kind,  and  not  without  initiative;  but  there  were 
also  the  elements  of  the  very  old  Adam  in  him,  and 
the  strain  of  the  obvious.  If  he  had  been  a  real 
genius,  rather  than  a  mere  lively  variation  of  the 
commonplace — a  chicken  that  could  never  burst  its 
shell,  a  bird  which  could  not  quite  break  into  song- 
he  might  have  made  his  biographer  guess  hard  and 
futilely,  as  to  what  he  would  do  after  having  seen 
his  wife's  arms  around  the  neck  of  another  man  than 
himself — a  man  little  more  than  a  manual  labourer, 
while  he,  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  had  come  of  the 
people  of  the  Old  Regime.  As  it  was,  this  magnate 
of  St.  Saviour's,  who  yesterday  posed  so  sympathet- 
ically and  effectively  in  the  Court  of  Vilray  as  a 
figure  of  note,  did  the  quite  obvious  thing :  he  deter- 
mined to  kill  the  master-carpenter  from  Laplatte. 
There  was  no  genius  in  that.  When,  from  under 
the  spreading  beech-tree,  Jean  Jacques  saw  his  wife 
footing  it  back  to  her  house  with  a  light,  wayward 
step;  when  he  watched  the  master-carpenter  vault 
over  a  stone  fence  five  feet  high  with  a  smile  of 
triumph  mingled  with  doubt  on  his  face,  he  was  tog 

94 


The  gate  in  the  wall 


stunned  at  first  to  move  or  speak.  If  a  sledge-ham- 
mer strikes  you  on  the  skull,  though  your  skull  is 
of  such  a  hardness  that  it  does  not  break,  still  the 
shock  numbs  activity  for  awhile,  at  any  rate.  The 
sledge-hammer  had  descended  on  Jean  Jacques'  head, 
and  also  had  struck  him  between  the  eyes ;  and  it  is 
in  the  credit  balance  of  his  ledger  of  life,  that  he  re- 
frained from  useless  outcry  at  the  moment.  Such  a 
stroke  kills  some  men,  either  at  once,  or  by  length- 
ened torture;  others  it  sends  mad,  so  that  they  make 
a  clamour  which  draws  the  attention  of  the  aston- 
ished and  not  sympathetic  world;  but  it  only  para- 
lysed Jean  Jacques.  For  a  time  he  sat  fascinated 
by  the  ferocity  of  the  event,  his  eyes  following  the 
hurrying  wife  and  the  jaunty,  swaggering  master- 
carpenter  with  a  strange,  animal-like  dismay  and 
apprehension.  They  remained  fixed  with  a  kind 
of  blank  horror  and  distraction  on  the  landscape  for 
some  time  after  both  had  disappeared. 

At  last,  however,  he  seemed  to  recover  his  senses, 
and  to  come  back  from  the  place  where  he  had  been 
struck  by  the  hammer  of  treachery.  He  seemed  to 
realize  again  that  he  was  still  a  part  of  the  common 
world,  not  a  human  being  swung  through  the  uni- 
verse on  his  heart-strings  by  a  Gorgon.  j 

The  paper  and  pencil  in  his  hand  brought  him 
back  from  the  far  Gehenna  where  he  had  been,  to  the 
world  again — how  stony  and  stormy  a  world  it  was, 
with  the  air  gone  as  heavy  as  lead,  with  his  feet  so 
loaded  down  with  chains  that  he  could  not  stir! 
He  had  had  great  joy  of  this  his  world;  he  had  found 
it  a  place  where  every  day  were  problems  to  be  solved 

95 


The  Money  Master 


by  an  astute  mind,  problems  which  gave  way  before 
the  master-thinker.  There  was  of  course  unhappi- 
ness  in  his  world.  There  was  death,  there  was  ac- 
cident occasionally — had  his  own  people  not  gone 
down  under  the  scythe  of  time?  But  in  going  they 
had  left  behind  in  real  estate  and  other  things  good 
compensation  for  their  loss.  There  was  occasional 
suffering  and  poverty  and  trouble  in  his  little  king- 
dom; but  a  cord  of  wood  here,  a  barrel  of  flour  there, 
a  side  of  beef  elsewhere,  a  little  debt  remitted,  a 
bag  of  dried  apples,  or  an  Indian  blanket — these  he 
gave,  and  had  great  pleasure  in  giving;  and  so  the 
world  was  not  a  place  where  men  should  hang  their 
heads,  but  a  place  where  the  busy  man  got  more  than 
the  worth  of  his  money. 

It  had  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  ever 
translating  the  world  into  terms  of  himself,  that  he 
went  on  his  way  saying  in  effect,  "I  am  coming.  I 
am  Jean  Jacques  Barbille.  You  have  heard  of  me. 
You  know  me.  Wave  a  hand  to  me,  duck  your  head 
to  me,  crack  the  whip  or  nod  when  I  pass.  I  am 
M'sieu*  Jean  Jacques,  philosopher." 

And  all  the  while  he  had  only  been  vaguely,  not 
really,  conscious  of  his  wife  and  child.  He  did  not 
know  that  he  had  only  made  of  his  wife  an  incident 
in  his  life,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  thought  he 
loved  her,  that  he  had  been  proud  of  her  splendid 
personality;  and  that,  with  passionate  chivalry,  he 
had  resented  any  criticism  of  her. 

He  thought  still,  as  he  did  on  the  Antoine,  that 
Carmen's  figure  had  the  lines  of  the  Venus  of  Milo, 
that  her  head  would  have  been  a  model  either  for  a 

96 


The  gate  in  the  wall 


Madonna,  or  for  Joan  of  Arc,  or  the  famous  Isabella 
of  Aragon.  Having  visited  the  Louvre  and  the 
Luxembourg  all  in  one  day,  he  felt  he  was  entitled  to 
make  such  comparisons,  and  that  in  making  them  he 
was  on  sure  ground.  He  had  loved  to  kiss  Carmen 
in  the  neck,  it  was  so  full  and  soft  and  round;  and 
when  she  went  about  the  garden  with  her  dress 
shortened,  and  he  saw  her  ankles,  even  after  he  had 
been  married  thirteen  years,  and  she  was  thirty- 
four,  he  still  admired,  he  still  thought  that  the  world 
was  a  good  place  when  it  produced  such  a  woman. 
And  even  when  she  had  lashed  him  with  her  tongue, 
as  she  did  sometimes,  he  still  laughed — after  the 
smart  was  over — because  he  liked  spirit.  He  would 
never  have  a  horse  that  had  not  some  blood,  and  he 
had  never  driven  a  sluggard  in  his  life  more  than 
once.  But  wife  and  child  and  world,  and  all  that 
therein  was,  existed  largely  because  they  were  neces- 
sary to  Jean  Jacques. 

That  is  the  way  it  had  been ;  and  it  was  as  though 
the  firmament  had  been  rolled  up  before  his  eyes, 
exposing  the  everlasting  mysteries,  when  he  saw  his 
wife  in  the  arms  of  the  master-carpenter.  It  was 
like  some  frightening  dream. 

The  paper  and  pencil  waked  him  to  reality.  He 
looked  towards  his  house,  he  looked  the  way  George 
Masson  had  gone,  and  he  knew  that  what  he  had  seen 
was  real  life  and  not  a  dream.  The  paper  fell  from 
his  hand.  He  did  not  pick  it  up.  Its  fall  represented 
the  tumbling  walls  of  life,  was  the  earthquake  which 
shook  his  world  into  chaos.  He  ground  the  sheet 
into  the  gravel  with  his  heel.  There  would  be  no 

7  97 


The  Money  Master 


cheese-factory  built  at  St.  Saviour's  for  many  a  year 
to  come.  The  man  of  initiative,  the  man  of  the  hun- 
dred irons  would  not  have  the  hundred  and  one,  or 
keep  the  hundred  hot  any  more;  because  he  would 
be  so  busy  with  the  iron  which  had  entered  into  his 
soul. 

When  the  paper  had  been  made  one  with  the  earth, 
a  problem  buried  for  ever,  Jean  Jacques  pulled  him- 
self up  to  his  full  height,  as  though  facing  a  great 
thing  which  he  must  do. 

"Well,  of  course!"  he  said  firmly. 

That  was  what  his  honour,  Judge  Carcasson,  had 
said  a  few  hours  before,  when  the  little  Clerk  of  the 
Court  had  remarked  an  obvious  thing  about  the 
case  of  Jean  Jacques. 

And  Jean  Jacques  said  only  the  obvious  thing 
when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  do  the  obvious  thing 
— to  kill  George  Masson,  the  master-carpenter. 

This  was  evidence  that  he  was  no  genius.  Any- 
body could  think  of  killing  a  man  who  had  injured 
him,  as  the  master-carpenter  had  done  Jean  Jacques. 
It  is  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  Patagonian. 
It  is  old  as  Rameses. 

Yet  in  his  own  way  Jean  Jacques  did  what  he  felt 
he  had  to  do.  The  thing  he  was  going  to  do  was 
hopelessly  obvious,  but  the  doing  of  it  was  Jean 
Jacques'  own;  and  it  was  not  obvious;  and  that 
perhaps  was  genius  after  alt.  There  are  certain 
inevitable  things  to  do,  and  for  all  men  to  do;  and 
they  have  been  doing  them  from  the  beginning  of 
time;  but  the  way  it  is  done — is  not  that  genius? 
There  is  no  new  story  in  the  world;  all  the  things 

98 


The  gate  in  the  wall 


that  happen  have  happened  for  untold  centuries; 
but  the  man  who  tells  the  story  in  a  new  way,  that 
is  genius,  so  the  great  men  say.  If,  then,  Jean 
Jacques  did  the  thing  he  had  to  do  with  a  turn  of 
his  own,  he  would  justify  to  some  degree  the  opinion 
he  had  formed  of  himself. 

As  he  walked  back  to  his  desecrated  home  he  set 
himself  to  think.  How  should  it  be  done?  There 
was  the  rifle  with  which  he  had  killed  deer  in  the 
woods  beyond  the  Saguenay  and  bear  beyond  the 
Chicoutimi.  That  was  simple — and  it  was  obvious; 
and  it  could  be  done  at  once.  He  could  soon  over- 
take the  man  who  had  spoiled  the  world  for  him. 

Yet  he  was  a  Norman,  and  the  Norman  thinks 
before  he  acts.  He  is  the  soul  of  caution;  he  wants 
to  get  the  best  he  can  out  of  his  bargain.  He  will 
throw  nothing  away  that  is  to  his  advantage.  There 
should  be  other  ways  than  the  gun  with  which  to  take 
a  man's  life — ways  which  might  give  a  Norman  a 
chance  to  sacrifice  only  one  life;  to  secure  punish- 
ment where  it  was  due,  but  also  escape  from  pun- 
ishment for  doing  the  obvious  thing. 

Poison?  That  was  too  stupid  even  to  think  of 
once.  A  pitch-fork  and  a  dung-heap?  That  had 
its  merits;  but  again  there  was  the  risk  of  more 
than  one  life. 

All  the  way  to  his  house,  Jean  Jacques,  with  some- 
thing of  the  rage  of  passion  and  the  glaze  of  horror 
gone  from  his  eyes,  and  his  face  not  now  so  ghastly, 
still  brooded  over  how,  after  he  had  had  his  say, 
he  was  to  put  George  Masson  out  of  the  world.  But 
it  did  not  come  at  once.  All  makers  of  life-stories 

99 


The  Money  Master 


find  their  difficulty  at  times.  Tirelessly  they  grope 
along  a  wall,  day  in,  day  out,  and  then  suddenly  a 
great  gate  swings  open,  as  though  to  the  touch  of  a 
spring,  and  the  whole  way  is  clear  to  the  goal. 

Jean  Jacques  went  on  thinking  in  a  strange,  new, 
intense  abstraction.  His  restless  eyes  were  steadier 
than  they  had  ever  been;  his  wife  noticed  that 
as  he  entered  the  house  after  the  Revelation.  She 
noticed  also  his  paleness  and  his  abstraction.  For 
an  instant  she  was  frightened ;  but  no,  Jean  Jacques 
could  not  know  anything.  Yet — yet  he  had  come 
from  the  direction  of  the  river! 

"What  is  it,  Jean  Jacques?"  she  asked.  "Aren't 
you  well?" 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head,  but  did  not  look  her 
in  the  eyes.  His  gesture  helped  him  to  avoid  that. 
"I  have  a  head — la,  such  a  head!  I  have  been 
thinking,  thinking — it  is  my  hobby.  I  have  been 
planning  the  cheese-factory,  and  all  at  once  it  comes 
on — the  ache  in  my  head.  I  will  go  to  bed.  Yes, 
I  will  go  at  once."  Suddenly  he  turned  at  the  door 
leading  to  the  bedroom.  "The  little  Zo6 — is  she 
well?" 

"Of  course.  Why  should  she  not  be  well?  She 
has  gone  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  Of  course,  she's 
well,  Jean  Jacques." 

"Good — good !"  he  remarked.  Somehow  it  seemed 
strange  to  him  that  Zo6  should  be  well.  Was  there 
not  a  terrible  sickness  in  his  house,  and  had  not  that 
woman,  his  wife,  her  mother,  brought  the  infection? 
Was  he  himself  not  stricken  by  it? 

Carmen  was  calm  enough  again.     "Go  to  bed, 

IOO 


The  gate  in  the  wall 


Jean  Jacques,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  bring  you  a  sleeping- 
posset.  I  know  those  headaches.  You  had  one 
when  the  ash-factory  was  burned." 

He  nodded  without  looking  at  her,  and  closed  the 
door  behind  him. 

When  she  came  to  the  bedroom  a  half -hour  later, 
his  face  was  turned  to  the  wall.  She  spoke,  but  he 
did  not  answer.  She  thought  he  was  asleep.  He 
was  not  asleep.  He  was  only  thinking  how  to  do 
the  thing  which  was  not  obvious,  which  was  also 
safe  for  himself.  That  should  be  his  triumph,  if  he 
could  but  achieve  it. 

When  she  came  to  bed  he  did  not  stir,  and  he  did 
not  answer  her  when  she  spoke. 

"The  poor  Jean  Jacques!"  he  heard  her  say,  and 
if  there  had  not  been  on  him  the  same  courage 
that  possessed  him  the  night  when  the  Antoine  was 
wrecked,  he  would  have  sobbed. 

He  did  not  stir.  He  kept  thinking;  and  all  the 
time,  her  words,  "The  poor  Jean  Jacques!"  kept 
weaving  themselves  through  his  vague  designs.  Why 
had  she  said  that — she  who  had  deceived,  betrayed 
him?  Had  he  then  seen  what  he  had  seen? 

She  did  not  sleep  for  a  long  time,  and  when  she 
did  it  was  uneasily.  But  the  bed  was  an  immense 
one,  and  she  was  not  near  him.  There  was  no  sleep 
for  him — not  even  for  an  hour.  Once,  in  exhaus- 
tion, he  almost  rolled  over  into  the  poppies  of  un- 
consciousness; but  he  came  back  with  a  start  and  a 
groan  to  sentient  life  again,  and  kept  feeling,  feeling 
along  the  wall  of  purpose  for  a  masterly  way  to  kill. 

At  dawn  it  came,  suddenly  spreading  out  before 
101 


The  Money  Master 


him  like  a  picture.  He  saw  himself  standing  at  the 
head  of  the  flume  out  there  by  the  Mill  Cartier  with 
his  hand  on  the  lever.  Below  him  in  the  empty 
flume  was  the  master-carpenter  giving  a  last  in- 
spection to  the  repairs.  Beyond  the  master-car- 
penter— far  beyond — was  the  great  mill-wheel !  Be- 
hind himself,  Jean  Jacques,  was  the  river  held  back 
by  the  dam;  and  if  the  lever  was  opened,  the  river 
would  sweep  through  the  raised  gates  down  the 
flume  to  the  mill-wheel — with  the  man.  And  then 
the  wheel  would  turn  and  turn,  and  the  man  would 
be  in  the  wheel. 

It  was  not  obvious;  it  was  original;  and  it  looked 
safe  for  Jean  Jacques.  How  easily  could  such  an 
"accident"  occur! 


CHAPTER  IX 
"MOI — JE  suis  PHILOSOPHE" 

THE  air  was  like  a  mellow  wine,  and  the  light 
on  the  landscape  was  full  of  wistfulness.  It 
was  a  thing  so  exquisite  that  a  man  of  sentiment  like 
Jean  Jacques  in  his  younger  days  would  have  wept 
to  see.  And  the  feeling  was  as  palpable  as  the  see- 
ing; as  in  the  early  spring  the  new  life  which  is 
being  born  in  the  year,  produces  a  febrile  kind  of 
sorrow  in  the  mind.  But  the  glow  of  Indian  summer, 
that  compromise,  that  after-thought  of  real  sum- 
mer, which  brings  her  back  for  another  good-bye 
ere  she  vanishes  for  ever — its  sadness  is  of  a  different 
kind.  Its  longing  has  a  sharper  edge;  there  stir 
in  it  the  pangs  of  discontent;  and  the  mind  and 
body  yearn  for  solace.  It  is  a  dangerous  time,  even 
more  dangerous  than  spring  for  those  who  have 
passed  the  days  of  youth. 

It  had  proved  dangerous  to  Carmen  Barbille. 
The  melancholy  of  the  gorgeously  tinted  trees,  the 
flights  of  the  birds  to  the  south,  the  smell  of  the 
fallow  field,  the  wind  with  the  touch  of  the  coming 
rains — these  had  given  to  a  growing  discontent  with 
her  monotonous  life  the  desire  born  of  self-pity.  In 
spite  of  all  she  could  do  she  was  turning  to  the  life 
she  had  left  behind  in  Cadiz  long  ago. 

103 


The  Money  Master 


It  seemed  to  her  that  Jean  Jacques  had  ceased  to 
care  for  the  charms  which  once  he  had  so  proudly 
proclaimed.  There  was  in  her  the  strain  of  the 
religion  of  Epicurus.  She  desired  always  that  her 
visible  corporeal  self  should  be  admired  and  de- 
sired, that  men  should  say,  "What  a  splendid  crea- 
ture!" It  was  in  her  veins,  an  undefined  philosophy 
of  life;  and  she  had  ever  measured  the  love  of  Jean 
Jacques  by  his  caresses.  She  had  no  other  vital 
standard.  This  she  could  measure,  she  could  grasp 
it  and  say,  "Here  I  have  a  hold;  it  is  so  much  har- 
vested." But  if  some  one  had  written  her  a  poem 
a  thousand  verses  long,  she  would  have  said,  "Yes, 
all  very  fine,  but  let  me  see  what  it  means;  let  me 
feel  that  it  is  so." 

She  had  an  inherent  love  of  luxury  and  pleasure, 
which  was  far  more  active  in  her  now  than  when 
she  married  Jean  Jacques.  For  a  Spanish  woman 
she  had  matured  late;  and  that  was  because,  in  her 
youth,  she  had  been  active  and  athletic,  unlike  most 
Spanish  girls;  and  the  microbes  of  a  sensuous  life, 
or  what  might  have  become  a  sensual  life,  had  not 
good  chance  to  breed. 

It  all  came,  however,  in  the  dullness  of  the  winter 
days  and  nights,  in  the  time  of  deep  snows,  when 
they  could  go  abroad  but  very  little.  Then  her 
body  and  her  mind  seemed  to  long  for  the  indolent 
sun-spaces  of  Spain.  The  artificial  heat  of  the  big 
stoves  in  the  rooms  with  the  low  ceilings  only  irri- 
tated her,  and  she  felt  herself  growing  more  ample 
from  lassitude  of  the  flesh.  This  particular  autumn 
it  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  get  through  an- 

104 


Moi — je  suis  philosophe" 


other  winter  without  something  going  wrong,  with- 
out a  crisis  of  some  sort.  She  felt  the  need  of  ex- 
citement, of  change.  She  had  the  desire  for  pleasures 
undefined. 

Then  George  Masson  came,  and  the  undefined 
took  form  almost  at  once.  It  was  no  case  of  the 
hunter  pursuing  his  prey  with  all  the  craft  and  sub- 
tlety of  his  trade.  She  had  answered  his  look  with 
spontaneity  due  to  the  fact  that  she  had  been  sur- 
prised into  the  candour  of  her  feelings  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  one  who  had  the  boldness  of  a  brigand, 
the  health  of  a  Hercules,  and  the  intelligence  of  a 
primitive  Jesuit.  He  had  not  hesitated;  he  had 
yielded  himself  to  the  sumptuous  attraction,  and  the 
fire  in  his  eyes  was  only  the  window  of  the  furnace 
within  him.  He  had  gone  headlong  to  the  conquest, 
and  by  sheer  force  of  temperament  and  weight  of 
passion  he  had  swept  her  off  her  feet. 

He  had  now  come  to  the  last  day  of  his  duty  at 
the  Mill  Cartier,  when  all  he  had  to  do  was  to 
inspect  the  work  done,  give  assurance  and  guarantee 
that  it  was  all  right,  and  receive  his  cheque  from 
Jean  Jacques.  He  had  come  early,  because  he  had 
been  unable  to  sleep  well,  and  also  he  had  much  to 
do  before  keeping  his  tryst  with  Carmen  Barbille  in 
the  afternoon. 

As  he  passed  the  Manor  Cartier  this  fateful  morn- 
ing, he  saw  her  at  the  window,  and  he  waved  his 
hat  at  her  with  a  cheery  salutation  which  she  did 
not  hear.  He  knew  that  she  did  not  hear  or  see. 
"My  beauty!"  he  said  aloud.  "My  splendid  girl, 
my  charmer  of  Cadiz !  My  wonder  of  the  Alhambra, 

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The  Money  Master 


my  Moorish  maid!  My  bird  of  freedom — hand  of 
Charlemagne,  your  lips  are  sweet,  yes,  sweet  as  one- 
and- twenty!" 

His  lips  grew  redder  at  the  thought  of  the  kisses 
he  had  taken,  his  cheek  flushed  with  the  thought  of 
those  he  meant  to  take;  and  he  laughed  greedily 
as  he  lowered  himself  into  the  flume  by  a  ladder, 
just  under  the  lever  that  opened  the  gates,  to  begin 
his  inspection. 

It  was  not  a  perfunctory  inspection,  for  he  was  a 
good  craftsman,  and  he  had  pride  in  what  his  work- 
men did. 

"AM" 

It  was  a  sound  of  dumbfounded  amazement,  a 
hoarse  cry  of  horror  which  was  not  in  tune  with  the 
beauty  of  the  morning. 

"AM" 

It  came  from  his  throat  like  the  groan  of  a  trapped 
and  wounded  lion.  George  Masson  had  almost 
finished  his  inspection,  when  he  heard  a  noise  behind 
him.  He  turned  and  looked  back.  There  stood 
Jean  Jacques  with  his  hand  on  the  lever.  The  noise 
he  had  heard  was  the  fourteen-foot  ladder  being 
dropped,  after  Jean  Jacques  had  drawn  it  up  softly 
out  of  the  flume. 

"Ah!  Nom  de  Dieu!"  George  Masson  exclaimed 
again  in  helpless  fury  and  with  horror  in  his  eyes. 

By  instinct  he  understood  that  Carmen's  husband 
knew  all.  He  realized  what  Jean  Jacques  meant 
to  do.  He  knew  that  the  lever  locking  the  mill- 
wheel  had  been  opened,  and  that  Jean  Jacques  had 

1 06 


"Moi — je  suis  philosophe 


his  hand  on  the  lever  which  raised  the  gate  of  the 
flume. 

By  instinct — for  there  was  no  time  for  thought — 
he  did  the  only  thing  which  could  help  him,  he  made 
a  swift  gesture  to  Jean  Jacques,  a  gesture  that  bade 
him  wait.  Time  was  his  only  friend  in  this — one 
minute,  two  minutes,  three  minutes,  anything.  For 
if  the  gates  were  opened,  he  would  be  swept  into  the 
mill-wheel,  and  there  would  be  the  end — the  ever- 
lasting end. 

"Wait!"  he  called  out  after  his  gesture.  "One 
second!" 

He  ran  forward  till  he  was  about  thirty  feet  from 
Jean  Jacques  standing  there  above  him,  with  the 
set  face  and  the  dark  malicious,  half-insane  eyes. 
Even  in  his  fear  and  ghastly  anxiety,  the  subcon- 
scious mind  of  George  Masson  was  saying,  ' '  He  looks 
like  the  Baron  of  Beaugard — like  the  Baron  of  Beau- 
gard  that  killed  the  man  who  abused  his  wife." 

It  was  so.  Great-great-grand-nephew  of  the  Baron 
of  Beaugard  as  he  was,  Jean  Jacques  looked  like  the 
portrait  of  him  which  hung  in  the  Manor  Cartier. 

"Wait — but  wait  one  minute!"  exclaimed  George 
Masson;  and  now,  all  at  once,  he  had  grown  cool 
and  determined,  and  his  brain  was  at  work  again  with 
an  activity  and  a  clearness  it  had  never  known.  He 
had  gained  one  minute  of  time,  he  might  be  able  to 
gain  more.  In  any  case,  no  one  could  save  him  ex- 
cept himself.  There  was  Jean  Jacques  with  his  hand 
on  the  lever — one  turn  and  the  thing  was  done 
for  ever.  If  a  rescuer  was  even  within  one  foot  of 
Jean  Jacques,  the  deed  could  still  be  done.  It  was 

107 


The  Money  Master 


so  much  easier  opening  than  shutting  the  gates  of 
the  flume! 

"Why  should  I  wait,  devil  and  rogue?"  The  words 
came  from  Jean  Jacques'  lips  with  a  snarl.  "I  am 
going  to  kill  you.  It  will  do  you  no  good  to  whine 
— cochon!" 

To  call  a  man  a  pig  is  the  worst  insult  which  could 
be  offered  by  one  man  to  another  in  the  parish  of 
St.  Saviour's.  To  be  called  a  pig  as  you  are  going 
to  die,  is  an  offensive  business  indeed. 

"I  know  you  are  going  to  kill  me — that  you  can 
kill  me,  and  I  can  do  nothing,"  was  the  master- 
carpenter's  reply.  "There  it  is — a  turn  of  the  lever, 
and  I  am  done.  Bien  stir,  I  know  how  easy !  I  do 
not  want  to  die,  but  I  will  not  squeal  even  if  I  am 
a  pig.  One  can  only  die  once.  And  once  is  enough 
.  .  .  No,  don't — not  yet!  Give  me  a  minute  till  I 
tell  you  something;  then  you  can  open  the  gates. 
You  will  have  a  long  time  to  live — yes,  yes,  you  are 
the  kind  that  live  long.  Well,  a  minute  or  two  is 
not  much  to  ask.  If  you  want  to  murder,  you  will 
open  the  gates  at  once;  but  if  it  is  punishment,  if  you 
are  an  executioner,  you  will  give  me  time  to  pray." 

Jean  Jacques  did  not  soften.  His  voice  was  harsh 
and  grim.  "Well,  get  on  with  your  praying,  but 
don't  talk.  You  are  going  to  die,"  he  added,  his 
hands  gripping  the  lever  tighter. 

The  master-carpenter  had  had  the  true  inspira- 
tion in  his  hour  of  danger.  He  had  touched  his 
appeal  with  logic,  he  had  offered  an  argument. 
Jean  Jacques  was  a  logician,  a  philosopher!  That 
point  made  about  the  difference  between  a  murder 

108 


"Moi — je  suis  philosophe" 


and  an  execution  was  a  good  one.  Beside  it  was  an 
acknowledgment,  by  inference,  from  his  victim,  that 
he  was  getting  what  he  deserved. 

"Pray  quick  and  have  it  over,  pig  of  an  adulterer!" 
added  Jean  Jacques. 

The  master-carpenter  raised  a  protesting  hand. 
"There  you  are  mistaken;  but  it  is  no  matter.  At 
the  end  of  to-day  I  would  have  been  an  adulterer, 
if  you  hadn't  found  out.  I  don't  complain  of  the 
word.  But  see,  as  a  philosopher" — Jean  Jacques 
jerked  a  haughty  assent — "as  a  philosopher  you  will 
want  to  know  how  and  why  it  is.  Carmen  will  never 
tell  you — a  woman  never  tells  the  truth  about  such 
things,  because  she  does  not  know  how.  She  does 
not  know  the  truth  ever,  exactly,  about  anything. 
It  is  because  she  is  a  woman.  But  I  would  like  to 
tell  you  the  exact  truth;  and  I  can,  because  I  am  a 
man.  For  what  she  did  you  are  as  much  to  blame 
as  she  .  .  .  No,  no — not  yet!" 

Jean  Jacques'  hand  had  spasmodically  tightened 
on  the  lever  as  though  he  would  wrench  the  gates 
open,  and  a  snarl  came  from  his  lips. 

"Figure  de  Christ,  but  it  is  true,  as  true  as  death! 
Listen,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques.  You  are  going  to 
kill  me,  but  listen  so  that  you  will  know  how  to 
speak  to  her  afterwards,  understanding  what  I  said 
as  I  died." 

"Get  on — quick!"  growled  Jean  Jacques  with 
white  wrinkled  lips  and  the  sun  inj  his  agonized 
eyes. 

George  Masson  continued  his  pleading.  "You 
were  always  a  man  of  mind" — Jean  Jacques'  fierce 

109 


The  Money  Master 


agitation  visibly  subsided,  and  a  surly  sort  of  vanity 
crept  into  his  face — "and  you  married  a  girl  who 
cared  more  for  what  you  did  than  what  you  thought 
— that  is  sure,  for  I  know  women.  I  am  not  married, 
and  I  have  had  much  to  do  with  many  of  them. 
I  will  tell  you  the  truth.  I  left  the  West  because 
of  a  woman — of  two  women.  I  had  a  good  business, 
but  I  could  not  keep  out  of  trouble  with  women. 
They  made  it  too  easy  for  me." 

"Peacock-pig!"  exclaimed  Jean  Jacques  with  an 
ugly  sneer. 

"Let  a  man  when  he  is  dying  tell  all  the  truth,  to 
ease  his  mind,"  said  the  master-carpenter  with  a 
machiavellian  pretence  and  cunning.  "It  was  van- 
ity, it  was,  as  you  say;  it  was  the  peacock  in  me 
made  me  be  the  friend  of  many  women  and  not  the 
husband  of  one.  I  came  down  here  to  Quebec  from 
the  Far  West  to  get  away  from  consequences.  It 
was  expensive.  I  had  to  sacrifice.  Well,  here  I  am 
in  trouble  again — my  last  trouble,  and  with  the  wife 
of  a  man  that  I  respect  and  admire,  not  enough  to 
keep  my  hands  off  his  wife,  but  still  that  I  admire. 
It  is  my  weakness  that  I  could  not  be,  as  a  man, 
honourable  to  Jean  Jacques  Barbille.  And  so  I 
pay  the  price;  so  I  have  to  go  without  time  to  make 
my  will.  Bless  heaven  above,  I  have  no  wife — 

"If  you  had  a  wife  you  would  not  be  dying  now. 
You  would  not  then  meddle  with  the  home  of  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille,"  sneered  Jean  Jacques.  The  note 
was  savage  yet. 

"Ah,  for  sure,  for  sure!  It  is  so.  And  if  I  lived 
I  would  marry  at  once." 

iio 


"Moi — je  suis  philosophe" 


Desperate  as  his  condition  was,  the  master- 
carpenter  could  almost  have  laughed  at  the  idea  of 
marriage  preventing  him  from  following  the  bent 
of  his  nature.  He  was  the  born  lover.  If  he  had 
been  as  high  as  the  Czar,  or  as  low  as  the  ditcher, 
he  would  have  been  the  same;  but  it  would  be  mad- 
ness to  admit  that  to  Jean  Jacques  now. 

"But,  as  you  say,  let  me  get  on.  My  time  has 
come — 

Jean  Jacques  jerked  his  head  angrily.  "Enough 
of  this.  You  keep  on  saying  'Wait  a  little,'  but 
your  time  has  come.  Now  take  it  so,  and  don't 
repeat." 

"A  man  must  get  used  to  the  idea  of  dying,  or  he 
will  die  hard,"  replied  the  master-carpenter,  for  he 
saw  that  Jean  Jacques'  hands  were  not  so  tightly 
clenched  on  the  lever  now;  and  time  was  every- 
thing. He  had  already  been  near  five  minutes, 
and  every  minute  was  a  step  to  a  chance  of  escape 
— somehow. 

' '  I  said  you  were  to  blame,"  he  continued.  ' '  Listen, 
Jean  Jacques  Barbille.  You,  a  man  of  mind,  married 
a  girl  who  cared  more  for  a  touch  of  your  hand  than  a 
bucketful  of  your  knowledge,  which  every  man  in  the 
province  knows  is  great.  At  first  you  were  almost 
always  thinking  of  her  and  what  a  fine  woman  she 
was,  and  because  everyone  admired  her,  you  played 
the  peacock,  too.  I  am  not  the  only  peacock.  You  are 
a  good  man — no  one  ever  said  anything  against  your 
character.  But  always,  always,  you  think  most  of 
yourself.  It  is  everywhere  you  go  as  if  you  say, 
'Look  out.  I  am  coming.  I  am  Jean  Jacques 

in 


The  Money  Master 


Barbille.  Make  way  for  Jean  Jacques.  I  am  from 
the  Manor  Cartier.  You  have  heard  of  me.'  .  .  . 
That  is  the  way  you  say  things  in  your  mind.  But 
all  the  time  the  people  say,  'That  is  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille,  but  you  should  see  his  wife.  She  is  a 
wonder.  She  is  at  home  at  the  Manor  with  the  cows 
and  the  geese.  Jean  Jacques  travels  alone  through 
the  parish  to  Quebec,  to  Three  Rivers,  to  Tadousac, 
to  the  great  exhibition  at  Montreal,  but  madame, 
she  stays  at  home.  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  is  nothing 
beside  her* — that  is  what  the  people  say.  They 
admire  you  for  your  brains,  but  they  would  have 
fallen  down  before  your  wife,  if  you  had  given  her 
half  a  chance." 

"Ah,  that's  bosh — what  do  you  know!"  ex- 
claimed Jean  Jacques  fiercely,  but  he  was  fascinated 
too  by  the  argument  of  the  man  whose  life  he  was 
going  to  take. 

"I  know  the  truth,  my  money-man.  Do  you 
think  she'd  have  looked  at  me  if  you'd  been  to  her 
what  she  thought  I  might  be?  No,  bien  stir!  Did 
you  take  her  where  she  could  see  the  world?  No. 
Did  you  bring  her  presents?  No.  Did  you  say, 
'Come  along,  we  will  make  a  little  journey  to  see 
the  world?'  No.  Do  you  think  that  a  woman  can 
sit  and  darn  your  socks,  and  tidy  your  room,  and 
bake  you  pan-cakes  in  the  morning  while  you  roast 
your  toes,  and  be  satisfied  with  just  that,  and  not 
long  for  something  outside?" 

Jean  Jacques  was  silent.  He  did  not  move.  He 
was  being  hypnotized  by  a  mind  of  subtle  strength, 
by  the  logic  of  which  he  was  so  great  a  lover. 

112 


"Moi — je  suis  philosophe" 


The  master-carpenter  pressed  his  logic  home. 
' '  No,  she  must  sit  in  your  shadow  always.  She  must 
wait  till  you  come.  And  when  you  come,  it  was, 
'Here  am  I,  your  Jean  Jacques.  Fall  down  and 
worship  me.  I  am  your  husband.'  Did  you  ever 
say,  'Heavens,  there  you  are,  the  woman  of  all  the 
world,  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  the  star  that 
shines,  the  garden  where  all  the  flowers  of  love  grow!' 
Did  you  ever  do  that?  But  no,  there  was  only  one 
person  in  the  world  —  there  was  only  you,  Jean 
Jacques.  You  were  the  only  pig  in  the  sty." 

It  was  a  bold  stroke,  but  if  Jean  Jacques  could 
stand  that,  he  could  stand  anything.  There  was  a 
savage  start  on  the  part  of  Jean  Jacques,  and  the 
lever  almost  moved. 

"Stop  one  second!"  cried  the  master-carpenter, 
sharply  now,  for  in  spite  of  the  sudden  savagery  on 
Jean  Jacques'  part,  he  felt  he  had  an  advantage, 
and  now  he  would  play  his  biggest  card. 

"You  can  kill  me.  It  is  there  in  your  hand.  No 
one  can  stop  you.  But  will  that  give  you  anything  ? 
What  is  my  life?  If  you  take  it  away,  will  you  be 
happier?  It  is  happiness  you  want.  Your  wife — 
she  will  love  you,  if  you  give  her  a  chance.  If  you 
kill  me,  I  will  have  my  revenge  in  death,  for  it  is 
the  end  of  all  things  for  you.  You  lose  your  wife 
for  ever.  You  need  not  do  so.  She  would  have 
gone  with  me,  not  because  of  me,  but  because  I  was 
a  man  who  she  thought  would  treat  her  like  a  friend, 
like  a  comrade;  who  would  love  her — sacre,  what 
husband  could  help  make  love  to  such  a  woman, 
unless  he  was  in  love  with  himself  instead  of  her!" 

8  113 


The  Money  Master 


Jean  Jacques  rocked  to  and  fro  over  the  lever 
in  his  agitation,  yet  he  made  no  motion  to  move  it. 
He  was  under  a  spell. 

Straight  home  drove  the  master-carpenter's  rea- 
soning now.  "Kill  me,  and  you  lose  her  for  ever. 
Kill  me,  and  she  will  hate  you.  You  think  she  will 
not  find  out  ?  Then  see :  as  I  die  I  will  shriek  out  so 
loud  that  she  can  hear  me,  and  she  will  understand. 
She  will  go  mad,  and  give  you  over  to  the  law.  And 
then — and  then!  Did  you  ever  think  what  will 
become  of  your  child,  of  your  Zoe,  if  you  go  to  the 
gallows?  That  would  be  your  legacy  and  your 
blessing  to  her — the  death  of  a  murderer;  and  she 
would  be  left  alone  with  the  woman  that  would  hate 
you  in  death!  Voild — do  you  not  see?" 

Jean  Jacques  saw.  The  terrific  logic  of  the  thing 
smote  him.  His  wife  hating  him,  himself  on  the 
scaffold,  his  little  Zoe  disgraced  and  dishonoured 
all  her  life;  and  himself  out  of  it  all,  unable  to  help 
her,  and  bringing  irremediable  trouble  on  her!  As 
a  chemical  clears  a  muddy  liquid,  leaving  it  pure 
and  atomless,  so  there  seemed  to  pass  over  Jean 
Jacques'  face  a  thought  like  a  revelation. 

He  took  his  hand  from  the  lever.  For  a  moment 
he  stood  like  one  awakened  out  of  a  sleep.  He  put 
his  hands  to  his  eyes,  then  shook  his  head  as  though 
to  free  it  of  some  hateful  burden.  An  instant  later 
he  stooped,  lifted  up  the  ladder  beside  him,  and  let 
it  down  to  the  floor  of  the  flume. 

"There,  go — for  ever,"  he  said. 

Then  he  turned  away  with  bowed  head.  He 
staggered  as  he  stepped  down  from  the  bridge  of  the 

114 


Moi — je  suis  philosophe 


flume,  where  the  lever  was.  He  swayed  from  side  to 
side.  Then  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  towards 
his  house.  His  child  lived  there — his  Zoe. 

"Moi — je  suis  philosophe!"  he  said  brokenly. 

After  a  moment  or  two,  as  he  stumbled  on,  he  said 
it  again — "Me,  I  am  a  philosopher!" 


CHAPTER  X 
"QUIEN  SABE" — WHO  KNOWS! 

'"PHIS  much  must  be  said  for  George  Masson, 
A  that  after  the  terrible  incident  at  the  flume  he 
would  have  gone  straight  to  the  Manor  Cartier  to 
warn  Carmen,  if  it  had  been  possible,  though  perhaps 
she  already  knew.  But  there  was  Jean  Jacques  on 
his  way  back  to  the  Manor,  and  nothing  remained 
but  to  proceed  to  Laplatte,  and  give  the  woman  up 
for  ever.  He  had  no  wish  to  pull  up  stakes  again  and 
begin  life  afresh,  though  he  was  only  forty,  and  he  had 
plenty  of  initiative  left.  But  if  he  had  to  go,  he 
would  want  to  go  alone,  as  he  had  done  before.  Yes, 
he  would  have  liked  to  tell  Carmen  that  Jean  Jacques 
knew  everything;  but  it  was  impossible.  She  would 
have  to  face  the  full  shock  from  Jean  Jacques'  own 
battery.  But  then  again  perhaps  she  knew  already. 
He  hoped  she  did. 

At  the  very  moment  that  Masson  was  thinking 
this,  while  he  went  to  the  main  road  where  he  had 
left  his  horse  and  buggy  tied  up,  Carmen  came  to 
know. 

Carmen  had  not  seen  her  husband  that  morning 
until  now.  She  had  waked  late,  and  when  she  was 
dressed  and  went  into  the  dining-rooih  to  look  for 

116 


'Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


him,  with  an  apprehension  which  was  the  reflection 
of  the  bad  dreams  of  the  night,  she  found  that  he 
had  had  his  breakfast  earlier  than  usual  and  had 
gone  to  the  mill.  She  also  learned  that  he  had  eaten 
very  little,  and  that  he  had  sent  a  man  into  Vilray 
for  something  or  other.  Try  as  she  would  to  stifle 
her  anxiety,  it  obtruded  itself,  and  she  could  eat  no 
breakfast.  She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  door  and  the 
window,  watching  for  Jean  Jacques. 

Yet  she  reproved  herself  for  her  stupid  concern, 
for  Jean  Jacques  would  have  spoken  last  night,  if  he 
had  discovered  anything.  He  was  not  the  man  to 
hold  his  tongue  when  he  had  a  chance  of  talking.  He 
would  be  sure  to  make  the  most  of  any  opportunity 
for  display  of  intellectual  emotion,  and  he  would  have 
burst  his  buttons  if  he  had  known.  That  was  the 
way  she  put  it  in  a  vernacular  which  was  not  Anda- 
lusian.  Such  men  love  a  grievance,  because  it  gives 
them  an  opportunity  to  talk — with  a  good  case  and 
to  some  point,  not  into  the  air  at  imaginary  things, 
as  she  had  so  often  seen  Jean  Jacques  do.  She  knew 
her  Jean  Jacques.  That  is,  she  thought  she  knew 
her  Jean  Jacques  after  living  with  him  for  over  thir- 
teen years;  but  hers  was  a  very  common  mistake. 
It  is  not  time  which  gives  revelation,  or  which  turns 
a  character  inside  out,  and  exposes  a  new  and 
amazing,  maybe  revolting  side  to  it.  She  had  never 
really  seen  Jean  Jacques,  and  he  had  never  really 
seen  himself,  as  he  was,  but  only  as  circumstances 
made  him  seem  to  be.  What  he  had  showed  of  his 
nature  all  these  forty  odd  years  was  only  the  ferment 
of  a  more  or  less  shallow  life,  in  spite  of  its  many 

117 


interests:  but  here  now  at  last  was  life,  with  the 
crust  broken  over  a  deep  well  of  experience  and 
tragedy.  She  knew  as  little  what  he  would  do  in  such 
a  case  as  he  himself  knew  beforehand.  As  the  inci- 
dent of  the  flume  just  now  showed,  he  knew  little 
indeed,  for  he  had  done  exactly  the  opposite  of 
what  he  meant  to  do.  It  was  possible  that  Carmen 
would  also  do  exactly  the  opposite  of  what  she  meant 
to  do  in  her  own  crisis. 

Her  test  was  to  come.  Would  she,  after  all,  go  off 
with  the  master-carpenter,  leaving  behind  her  the 
pretty,  clever,  volatile  Zo£.  .  .  .  Zoe — ah,  where 
was  Zoe?  Carmen  became  anxious  about  Zoe,  she 
knew  not  why.  Was  it  the  revival  of  the  maternal 
instinct  ? 

She  was  told  that  Zo£  had  gone  off  on  her  pony  to 
take  a  basket  of  good  things  to  a  poor  old  woman 
down  the  river  three  miles  away.  She  would  be  gone 
all  morning.  By  so  much,  fate  was  favouring  her; 
for  the  child's  presence  would  but  heighten  the  emo- 
tion of  her  exit  from  that  place  where  her  youth  had 
been  wasted.  Already  the  few  things  she  had  meant 
to  take  away  were  secreted  in  a  safe  place  some 
distance  from  the  house,  beside  the  path  she  meant 
to  take  when  she  left  Jean  Jacques  for  ever.  George 
Masson  wanted  her,  they  were  to  meet  to-day,  and 
she  was  going — going  somewhere  out  of  this  intol- 
erable dullness  and  discontent. 

When  she  pushed  her  coffee-cup  aside  and  rose 
from  the  table  without  eating,  she  went  straight  to 
her  looking-glass  and  surveyed  herself  with  a  search- 
ing eye.  Certainly  she  was  young  enough  (she  said 

118 


"Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


to  herself)  to  draw  the  eyes  of  those  who  cared  for 
youth  and  beauty.  There  was  not  a  grey  hair  in 
the  dark  brown  of  her  head,  there  was  not  a  wrinkle 
—yes,  there  were  two  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
which  told  the  story  of  her  restlessness,  of  her  hunger 
for  the  excitement  of  which  she  had  been  deprived 
all  these  years.  To  go  back  to  Cadiz? — oh,  any- 
where, anywhere,  so  that  her  blood  could  beat 
faster;  so  that  she  could  feel  the  stir  of  life  which 
had  made  her  spirit  flourish  even  in  the  dangers  of 
the  far-off  day  when  Gonzales  was  by  her  side. 

She  looked  at  her  guitar.  She  was  sorry  she  could 
not  take  that  away  with  her.  But  Jean  Jacques 
would,  no  doubt,  send  it  after  her  with  his  curse. 
She  would  love  to  play  it  once  again  with  the  old 
thrill;  with  the  thrill  she  had  felt  on  the  night  of 
Zoe's  birthday  a  little  while  ago,  when  she  was  back 
again  with  her  lover  and  the  birds  in  the  gardens  of 
Granada.  She  would  sing  to  someone  who  cared 
to  hear  her,  and  to  someone  who  would  make  her 
care  to  sing,  which  was  far  more  important.  She 
would  sing  to  the  master-carpenter.  Though  he 
had  not  asked  her  to  go  with  him — only  to  meet  in 
a  secret  place  in  the  hills — she  meant  to  do  so,  just 
as  she  once  meant  to  marry  Jean  Jacques,  and  had 
done  so.  It  was  true  she  would  probably  not  have 
married  Jean  Jacques,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
wreck  of  the  Antoine;  but  the  wreck  had  occurred, 
and  she  had  married  him,  and  that  was  done  and 
over  so  far  as  she  was  concerned.  She  had  deter- 
mined to  go  away  with  the  master-carpenter,  and 
though  he  might  feel  the  same  hesitation  as  that 

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The  Money  Master 


which  Jean  Jacques  had  shown — she  had  read  her 
Norman  aright  aboard  the  Antoine — yet,  still,  George 
Masson  should  take  her  away.  A  catastrophe  had 
thrown  Jean  Jacques  into  her  arms;  it  would  not 
be  a  catastrophe  which  would  throw  the  master- 
carpenter  into  her  arms.  It  would  be  that  they 
wanted  each  other. 

The  mirror  gave  her  a  look  of  dominance — was  it 
her  regular  features  and  her  classic  head?  Does 
beauty  in  itself  express  authority,  just  because  it 
has  the  transcendent  thing  in  it?  Does  the  perfect 
form  convey  something  of  the  same  thing  that  physi- 
cal force — an  army  in  arms,  a  battleship — conveys? 
In  any  case  it  was  there,  that  inherent  masterful- 
ness, though  not  in  its  highest  form.  She  was  not 
an  aristocrat,  she  was  no  daughter  of  kings,  no  duch- 
ess of  Castile,  no  dona  of  Segovia;  and  her  beauty 
belonged  to  more  primary  manifestations;  but  it 
was  above  the  lower  forms,  even  if  it  did  not  reach 
to  the  highest.  "A  handsome  even  splendid  woman 
of  her  class"  would  have  been  the  judgment  of  the 
connoisseur. 

As  she  looked  in  the  glass  at  her  clear  skin,  at  the 
wonderful  throat  showing  so  soft  and  palpable  and 
tower-like  under  the  black  velvet  ribbon  brightened 
by  a  paste  ornament  fastened  to  it;  as  she  saw  the 
smooth  breadth  of  brow,  the  fulness  of  the  lips,  the 
limpid  lustre  of  the  large  eyes,  the  well-curved  ear,  so 
small  and  so  like  ivory,  it  came  home  to  her,  as  it 
had  never  done  before,  thaisshe  was  wasted  in  this 
obscure  parish  of  St.  Saviour's. 

There  was  not  a  more  restless  soul  or  Uody  in  all 
1 20 


"Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


the  hemisphere  than  the  soul  and  body  of  Carmen 
Barbille,  as  she  went  from  this  to  that  on  the  morn- 
ing when  Jean  Jacques  had  refrained  from  killing 
the  soul-disturber,  the  master-carpenter,  who  had 
with  such  skill  destroyed  the  walls  and  foundations 
of  his  home.  Carmen  was  pointlessly  busy  as  she 
watched  for  the  return  of  Jean  Jacques. 

At  last  she  saw  him  coming  from  the  flume  of  the 
mill!  She  saw  that  he  stumbled  as  he  walked,  and 
that,  every  now  and  then,  he  lifted  his  head  with  an 
effort  and  threw  it  back,  and  threw  his  shoulders 
back  also,  as  though  to  assert  his  physical  manhood. 
He  wore  no  hat,  his  hands  were  making  involuntary 
gestures  of  helplessness.  But  presently  he  seemed 
to  assert  authority  over  his  fumbling  body  and  to 
come  erect.  His  hands  clenched  at  his  side,  his  head 
came  up  stiffly  and  stayed,  and  with  quickened 
footsteps  he  marched  rigidly  forward  towards  the 
Manor. 

Then  she  guessed  at  the  truth,  and  as  soon  as  she 
saw  his  face  she  was  sure  beyond  peradventure  that 
he  knew. 

His  figure  darkened  the  doorway.  Her  first 
thought  was  to  turn  and  flee,  not  because  she  was 
frightened  of  what  he  would  do,  but  because  she  did 
not  wish  to  hear  what  he  would  say.  She  shrank 
from  the  uprolling  of  the  curtain  of  the  last  thirteen 
years,  from  the  grim  exposure  of  the  nakedness  of 
their  life  together.  Her  indolent  nature  in  repose 
wanted  the  dust  of  existence  swept  into  a  corner  out 

121 


The  Money  Master 


of  sight;  yet  when  she  was  roused,  and  there  were 
no  corners  into  which  the  dust  could  be  swept,  she 
could  be  as  bold  as  any  better  woman. 

She  hesitated  till  it  was  too  late  to  go,  and  then  as 
he  entered  the  house  from  the  staring  sunlight  and 
the  peace  of  the  morning,  she  straightened  herself, 
and  a  sulky,  stubborn  look  came  into  her  eyes.  He 
might  try  to  kill  her,  but  she  had  seen  death  in  many 
forms  far  away  in  Spain,  and  she  would  not  be  afraid 
till  there  was  cause.  Imagination  would  not  take 
away  her  courage.  She  picked  up  a  half -knitted 
stocking  which  lay  upon  the  table,  and  standing 
there,  while  he  came  into  the  middle  of  the  room, 
she  began  to  ply  the  needles. 

He  stood  still.  Her  face  was  bent  over  her  knit- 
ting. She  did  not  look  at  him. 

"Well,  why  don't  you  look  at  me?"  he  asked  in  a 
voice  husky  with  passion. 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  straight  into  his 
dark,  distracted  eyes. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said  calmly. 

A  kind  of  snarling  laugh  came  to  his  lips.  "I  said 
good  morning  to  my  wife  yesterday,  but  I  will  not 
say  it  to-day.  What  is  the  use  of  saying  good 
morning,  when  the  morning  is  not  good!" 

"That's  logical,  anyhow,"  she  said,  her  needles 
going  faster  now.  She  was  getting  control  of  them 
— and  of  herself. 

"Why  isn't  the  morning  good?  Speak.  Why 
isn't  it  good,  Carmen?" 

"Quien  sabe — who  knows!"  she  replied  with 
exasperating  coolness. 

122 


"Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


"I — /  know  all;  and  it  is  enough  for  a  lifetime," 
he  challenged. 

"What  do  you  know— what  is  the  'all'?"  Her 
voice  had  lost  timbre.  It  was  suddenly  weak,  but 
from  suspense  and  excitement  rather  than  from 
fear. 

"I  saw  you  last  night  with  him,  by  the  river.  I 
saw  what  you  did.  I  heard  you  say,  'Yes,  to- 
morrow, for  sure.'  I  saw  what  you  did." 

Her  eyes  were  busy  with  the  knitting  now.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  say.  Then,  he  had  known  all 
since  the  night  before!  He  knew  it  when  he  pre- 
tended that  his  head  ached — knew  it  as  he  lay  by  her 
side  all  night.  He  knew  it,  and  said  nothing!  But 
what  had  he  done — what  had  he  done?  She  waited 
for  she  knew  not  what.  George  Masson  was  to 
come  and  inspect  the  flume  early  that  morning. 
Had  he  come?  She  had  not  seen  him.  But  the 
river  was  flowing  through  the  flume:  she  could  hear 
the  mill-wheel  turning — she  could  hear  the  mill- 
wheel  turning! 

As  she  did  not  speak,  with  a  curious  husky 
shrillness  to  his  voice  he  said:  "There  he  was  down 
in  the  flume,  there  was  I  at  the  lever  above,  there 
was  the  mill-wheel  unlocked.  There  it  was.  I 
gripped  the  lever,  and " 

Her  great  eyes  stared  with  horror.  The  knitting- 
needles  stopped ;  a  pallor  swept  across  her  face.  She 
felt  as  she  did  when  she  heard  the  court-martial 
sentence  Carvillho  Gonzales  to  death. 

The  mill-wheel  sounded  louder  and  louder  in  her 
ears. 

123 


The  Money  Master 


"You  let  in  the  river!"  she  cried.  "You  drove 
him  into  the  wheel — you  killed  him!" 

"What  else  was  there  to  do?"  he  demanded. 
"It  had  to  be  done,  and  it  was  the  safest  way.  It 
would  be  an  accident.  Such  a  thing  might  easily 
happen." 

"You  have  murdered  him!"  she  gasped  with  a 
wild  look. 

"To  call  it  murder!"  he  sneered.  "Surely  my 
wife  would  not  call  it  murder." 

"Fiend — not  to  have  the  courage  to  fight  him!" 
she  flung  back  at  him.  "To  crawl  like  a  snake  and 
let  loose  a  river  on  a  man !  In  any  other  country, 
he'd  have  been  given  a  chance." 

This  was  his  act  in  a  new  light.  He  had  had  only 
one  idea  in  his  mind  when  he  planned  the  act,  and 
that  was  punishment.  What  rights  had  a  man 
who  had  stolen  what  was  nearer  and  dearer  than  a 
man's  own  flesh,  and  for  which  he  would  have  given 
his  own  flesh  fifty  times?  Was  it  that  Carmen 
would  now  have  him  believe  he  ought  to  have  fought 
the  man,  who  had  spoiled  his  life  and  ruined  a 
woman's  whole  existence? 

"What  chance  had  I  when  he  robbed  me  in  the 
dark  of  what  is  worth  fifty  times  my  own  life  to 
me?"  he  asked  savagely. 

"Murderer — murderer!"  she  cried  hoarsely.  "You 
shall  pay  for  this." 

"You  will  tell — you  will  give  me  up?" 

Her  eyes  were  on  the  mill  and  the  river  .  .  .  "Where 
—where  is  he?  Has  he  gone  down  the  river?  Did 
you  kill  him  and  let  him  go — like  that!" 

124 


"Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


She  made  a  flinging  gesture,  as  one  would  toss  a 
stone. 

He  stared  at  her.  He  had  never  seen  her  face 
like  that — so  strained  and  haggard.  George  Masson 
was  right  when  he  said  that  she  would  give  him  up; 
that  his  life  would  be  in  danger,  and  that  his  child's 
life  would  be  spoiled. 

"Murderer!"  she  repeated.  "And  when  you  go 
to  the  gallows,  your  child's  life — you  did  not  think 
of  that,  eh?  To  have  your  revenge  on  the  man 
who  was  no  more  to  blame  than  I,  thinking  only  of 
yourself,  you  killed  him;  but  you  did  not  think  of 
your  child." 

Ah,  yes,  surely  George  Masson  was  right!  That 
was  what  he  had  said  about  his  child,  Zoe.  What  a 
good  thing  it  was  he  had  not  killed  the  ravager  of 
his  home ! 

But  suddenly  his  logic  came  to  his  aid.  In  terrible 
misery  as  he  was,  he  was  almost  pleased  that  he 
could  reason.  "And  you  would  give  me  over  to 
the  law?  You  would  send  me  to  the  gallows — and 
spoil  your  child's  life?"  he  retorted. 

She  threw  the  knitting  down  and  flung  her 
hands  up.  "I  have  no  husband.  I  have  no 
child.  Take  your  life.  Take  it.  I  will  go  and 
find  his  body,"  she  said,  and  she  moved  swiftly 
towards  the  door.  "He  has  gone  down  the  river — 
I  will  find  him!" 

"He  has  gone  up  the  river,"  he  exclaimed.  "Up 
the  river,  I  say!" 

She  stopped  short  and  looked  at  him  blankly. 
Then  his  meaning  became  clear  to  her. 


The  Money  Master 


"You  did  not  kill  him?"  she  asked  scarce  above 
a  whisper. 

"I  let  him  go,"  he  replied. 

"You  did  not  fight  him — why?"  There  was  scorn 
in  her  tone. 

"And  if  I  had  killed  him  that  way?"  he  asked 
with  terrible  logic,  as  he  thought. 

"There  was  little  chance  of  that,"  she  replied 
scornfully,  and  steadied  herself  against  a  chair;  for, 
now  that  the  suspense  was  over,  she  felt  as  though 
she  had  been  passed  between  stones  which  ground 
the  strength  out  of  her. 

A  flush  of  fierce  resentment  crossed  over  his  face. 
"It  is  not  everything  to  be  big,"  he  rejoined.  "The 
greatest  men  in  the  world  have  been  small  like  me, 
but  they  have  brought  the  giant  things  to  their  feet." 

She  waved  a  hand  disdainfully.  "What  are  you 
going  to  do  now?"  she  asked. 

He  drew  himself  up.  He  seemed  to  rearrange 
the  motions  of  his  mind  with  a  little  of  the  old 
vanity,  which  was  at  once  grotesque  and  piteous.  ' '  I 
am  going  to  forgive  you  and  to  try  to  put  things 
right,"  he  said.  "I  have  had  my  faults.  You  were 
not  to  blame  altogether.  I  have  left  you  too  much 
alone.  I  did  not  understand  everything  all  through. 
I  had  never  studied  women.  If  I  had  I  should  have 
done  the  right  thing  always.  I  must  begin  to  study 
women." 

The  drawn  look  was  going  a  little  from  his  face, 
the  ghastly  pain  was  fading  from  his  eyes;  his  heart 
was  speaking  for  her,  while  his  vain  intellect  hunted 
the  solution  of  his  problem. 


"Quien  sabe" — who  knows! 


She  could  scarcely  believe  her  ears.  No  Spaniard 
would  ever  have  acted  as  this  man  was  doing.  She 
had  come  from  a  land  of  No  Forgiveness.  Carvillho 
Gonzales  would  have  killed  her,  if  she  had  been  un- 
true to  him;  and  she  would  have  expected  it  and 
understood  it. 

But  Jean  Jacques  was  going  to  forgive  her — 
going  to  study  women,  and  so  understand  her  and 
understand  women,  as  he  understood  philosophy! 
This"  was  too  fantastic  for  human  reason.  She  stared 
at  him,  unable  to  say  a  word,  and  the  distracted 
look  in  her  face  did  not  lessen.  Forgiveness  did  not 
solve  her  problem. 

"I  am  going  to  take  you  to  Montreal — and  then 
out  to  Winnipeg,  when  I've  got  the  cheese-factory 
going,"  he  said  with  a  wise  look  in  his  face,  and  with 
tenderness  even  coming  into  his  eyes.  "I  know 
what  mistakes  I've  made" — had  not  George  Masson 
the  despoiler  told  him  of  them? — "and  I  know  what 
a  scoundrel  that  fellow  is,  and  what  tricks  of  the 
tongue  he  has.  Also  he  is  as  sleek  to  look  at  as  a 
bull,  and  so  he  got  a  hold  on  you.  I  grasp  things 
now.  Soon  we  will  start  away  together  again  as  we 
did  at  Gaspe." 

He  came  close  to  her.  "Carmen!"  he  said,  and 
made  as  though  he  would  embrace  her. 

"Wait — wait  a  little.  Give  me  time  to  think," 
she  said  with  dry  lips,  her  heart  beating  hard.  Then 
she  added  with  a  flattery  which  she  knew  would 
tell,  "I  cannot  think  quick  as  you  do.  I  am  slow. 
I  must  have  time.  I  want  to  work  it  all  out.  Wait 

till  to-night,"  she  urged.     "Then  we  can " 

127 


The  Money  Master 


"Good,  we  will  make  it  all  up  to-night,"  he  said, 
and  he  patted  her  shoulder  as  one  would  that  of  a 
child.  It  had  the  slight  flavour  of  the  superior  and 
the  paternal. 

She  almost  shrank  from  his  touch.  If  he  had 
kissed  her  she  would  have  felt  that  she  must  push 
him  away;  and  yet  she  also  knew  how  good  a  man 
he  was. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  CLERK  OF  THE  COURT  KEEPS  A  PROMISE 

4 

WELL,  what   is  it,  M'sieu'   Fille?    What   do 
you  want  with  me?    I've  got  a  lot  to  do  be- 
fore sundown,  and  it  isn't  far  off.     Out  with  it." 

George  Masson  was  in  no  good  humour;  from 
the  look  on  the  face  of  the  little  Clerk  of  the  Court 
he  had  no  idea  that  he  would  disclose  any  good  news. 
It  was  probably  some  stupid  business  about  "money 
not  being  paid  into  the  Court,"  which  had  been  left 
over  from  cases  tried  and  lost;  and  he  had  had  a 
number  of  cases  that  summer.  His  head  was  not 
so  clear  to-day  as  usual,  but  he  had  had  little  diffi- 
culties with  M'sieu'  Fille  before,  and  he  was  sure 
that  there  was  something  wrong  now. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  me  a  present?"  he  added 
with  humorous  impatience,  for  though  he  was  not 
in  a  good  temper,  he  liked  the  Clerk  of  the  Court, 
who  was  such  a  figure  at  Vilray. 

The  opening  for  his  purpose  did  not  escape  M. 
Fille.  He  had  been  at  a  loss  to  begin,  but  here  was  a 
natural  opportunity  for  him. 

"Well,  good  advice  is  not  always  a  present,  but  I 
should  like  mine  to  be  taken  as  such,  monsieur,"  he 
said  a  little  oracularly. 
9  129 


The  Money  Master 


"Oh,  advice — to  give  me  advice — that's  why 
you've  brought  me  in  here,  when  I've  so  much  to 
do  I  can't  breathe!  Time  is  money  with  me,  old  'un." 

"Mine  is  advice  which  may  be  money  in  your 
pocket,  monsieur,"  remarked  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
with  meaning.  "Money  saved  is  money  earned." 

"How  do  you  mean  to  save  me  money — by  getting 
the  Judge  to  give  decisions  in  my  favour?  That 
would  be  money  in  my  pocket  for  sure.  The  Court 
has  been  running  against  my  interests  this  year. 
When  I  think  I  was  never  so  right  in  my  life — bang 
goes  the  judgment  of  the  Court  against  me,  and  into 
my  pocket  goes  my  hand.  I  don't  only  need  to 
save  money,  I  need  to  make  it ;  so  if  you  can  help  me 
in  that  way  I'm  your  man,  M'sieu'  la  Fillette?" 

The  little  man  bristled  at  the  misuse  of  his  name, 
and  he  flushed  slightly  also;  but  there  was  always 
something  engaging  in  the  pleasure-loving  master- 
carpenter.  He  had  such  an  eloquent  and  warm 
temperament,  the  atmosphere  of  his  personality  was 
so  genial,  that  his  impertinence  was  insulated. 
Certainly  the  master-carpenter  was  not  unpopular, 
and  people  could  not  easily  resist  the  grip  of  his 
physical  influence,  while  mentally  he  was  far  in- 
deed from  being  deficient.  He  looked  as  little  like 
a  villain  as  a  man  could,  and  yet — and  yet  a  nature 
like  that  of  George  Masson  (even  the  little  Clerk 
could  see  that)  was  not  capable  of  being  true  beyond 
the  minute  in  which  he  took  his  oath  of  fidelity. 
While  the  fit  of  willingness  was  on  him  he  would  be 
true;  yet  in  reality  there  was  no  truth  at  all — only 
self -indulgence  unmarked  by  duty  or  honour. 

130 


The  clerk  of  the  court  keeps  a  promise 

"Give  me  a  judgment  for  defamation  of  character. 
Give  me  a  thousand  dollars  or  so  for  that,  m'sieu', 
and  you'll  do  a  good  turn  to  a  deserving  fellow- 
citizen  and  admirer — one  little  thousand,  that's  all, 
m'sieu'.  Then  I'll  dance  at  your  wedding  and  weep 
at  your  tomb — so  there!" 

How  easy  he  made  the  way  for  the  little  Clerk  of 
the  Court!  "Defamation  of  character" — could  there 
possibly  be  a  better  opening  for  what  he  had  promised 
Judge  Carcasson  he  would  say! 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Masson,"  very  officially  and 
decorously  replied  M.  Fille,  "but  is  it  defamation 
of  character?  If  the  thing  is  true,  then  what  is  the 
judgment?  It  goes  against  you — so  there!"  There 
was  irony  in  the  last  words. 

"If  what  thing  is  true?"  sharply  asked  the 
master-carpenter,  catching  at  the  fringe  of  the  idea 
in  M.  Fille's  mind.  "What  thing?" 

"Ah,  but  it  is  true,  for  I  saw  it!  Yes,  alas!  I  saw 
it  with  my  own  eyes.  By  accident  of  course;  but 
there  it  was — absolute,  uncompromising,  deadly  and 
complete." 

It  was  a  happy  moment  for  the  little  Clerk  of  the 
Court  when  he  could,  in  such  an  impromptu  way, 
coin  a  phrase,  or  a  set  of  adjectives,  which  would 
bear  inspection  of  purists  of  the  language.  He 
loved  to  talk,  though  he  did  not  talk  a  great  deal, 
but  he  made  innumerable  conversations  in  his  mind, 
and  that  gave  him  facility  when  he  did  speak.  He 
had  made  conversations  with  George  Masson  in  his 
mind  since  yesterday,  when  he  gave  his  promise  to 
Judge  Carcasson;  but  none  of  them  was  like  the 


The  Money  Master 


real  conversation  now  taking  place.  It  was  all  the 
impression  of  the  moment,  while  the  phrases  in  his 
mind  had  been  wonderfully  logical  things  which, 
from  an  intellectual  standpoint,  would  have  de- 
lighted the  man  whose  cause  he  was  now  engaged  in 
defending. 

"You  saw  what,  M'sieu'  la  Fillette?  Out  with 
it,  and  don't  use  such  big  adjectives.  I'm  only  a 
carpenter.  'Absolute,  uncompromising,  deadly,  com- 
plete'— that's  a  mouthful  of  grammar,  my  lords! 
Come,  my  sprig  of  jurisprudence,  tell  us  what  you 
saw." 

There  was  an  apparent  nervousness  in  Masson's 
manner  now.  Indeed  he  showed  more  agitation 
than  when,  a  few  hours  before,  Jean  Jacques  had 
stood  with  his  hand  on  the  lever  of  the  gates  of  the 
flume,  and  the  life  of  the  master-carpenter  at  his 
feet,  to  be  kicked  into  eternity. 

"Four  days  ago  at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon" 
— in  a  voice  formal  and  exact,  the  little  Clerk  of  the 
Court  seemed  to  be  reading  from  a  paper,  since  he 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  blotter  before  him,  as  he 
did  in  Court — "I  was  coming  down  the  hill  behind 
the  Manor  Cartier,  when  my  attention — by  accident 
— was  drawn  to  a  scene  below  me  in  the  Manor.  I 
stopped  short,  of  course,  and " 

"Diablel  You  stopped  short  'of  course'  before 
what  you  saw!  Spit  it  out — what  did  you  see?" 

George  Masson  had  had  a  trying  day,  and  there 
was  danger  of  losing  control  of  himself.  There  was 
a  whiteness  growing  round  the  eyes,  and  eating  up 
the  warmth  of  the  cheek;  his  admhably  smooth 

132 


The  clerk  of  the  court  keeps  a  promise 

brow  was  contracted  into  a  dozen  heavy  wrinkles, 
and  a  foot  shifted  uneasily  on  the  floor  with  a  scrap- 
ing sole.  This  drew  the  attention  of  M.  Fille,  who 
raised  his  head  reprovingly — he  could  not  get  rid 
of  the  feeling  that  he  was  in  court,  and  that  a  case 
was  being  tried;  and  the  severity  of  a  Judge  is 
naught  compared  with  the  severity  of  a  Clerk  of 
the  Court,  particularly  if  he  is  small  and  unmarried, 
and  has  no  one  to  beat  him  into  manageable  human- 
ity. 

M.  Fille's  voice  was  almost  querulous. 

"If  you  will  but  be  patient,  monsieur!  I  saw  a 
man  with  a  woman  in  his  arms,  and  I  fear  that  I 
must  mention  the  name  of  the  man.  It  is  not 
necessary  to  give  the  name  of  the  woman,  but  I  have 
it  written  here" — he  tapped  the  paper — "and  there 
is  no  mistake  in  the  identity.  The  man's  name  is 
George  Masson,  master-carpenter,  of  the  town  of 
Laplatte  in  the  province  of  Quebec." 

George  Masson  was  as  one  hit  between  the  eyes. 
He  made  a  motion  as  though  to  ward  off  a  blow. 

' '  Name  of  Peter,  old  cock !"  he  exclaimed  abruptly. 
"You  saw  enough  certainly,  if  you  saw  that,  and 
you  needn't  mention  the  lady's  name,  as  you  say. 
The  evidence  is  not  merely  circumstantial.  You 
saw  it  with  your  own  eyes,  and  you  are  an  official 
of  the  Court,  and  have  the  ear  of  the  Judge,  and  you 
look  like  a  saint  to  a  jury.  Well  for  sure,  I  can't 
prove  defamation  of  character,  as  you  say.  But 
what  then — what  do  you  want?" 

"What  I  want  I  hope  you  may  be  able  to  grant 
without  demur,  monsieur.  I  want  you  to  give  your 


The  Money  Master 


pledge  on  the  Book" — he  laid  his  hand  on  a  Testa- 
ment lying  on  the  table — "that  you  will  hold  no 
further  communication  with  the  lady." 

"Where  do  you  come  in  here?  What's  your 
standing  in  the  business?"  Masson  jerked  out  his 
words  now. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  made  a  reproving  gesture. 

"Knowing  what  I  did,  what  I  had  seen,  it  was 
clear  that  I  must  approach  one  or  other  of  the  parties 
concerned.  Out  of  regard  for  the  lady  I  could  not 
approach  her  husband,  and  so  betray  her;  out  of 
regard  for  the  husband  I  could  not  approach  himself 
and  destroy  his  peace ;  out  of  regard  for  all  concerned 
I  could  not  approach  the  lady's  father,  for  then— 

Masson  interrupted  with  an  oath. 

"That  old  reprobate  of  Cadiz — well  no,  bagosh! 
And  so  you  whisked  me  into  your  office  with  the 
talk  of  urgent  business  and 

"Is  not  the  business  urgent,  monsieur?" 

"Not  at  all,"  was  the  sharp  reply  of  the  culprit. 

"Monsieur,  you  shock  me.  Do  you  consider  that 
your  conduct  is  not  criminal?  I  have  here" — he 
placed  his  hand  on  a  book — "the  Statutes  of  Vic- 
toria, and  it  lays  down  with  wholesome  severity  the 
law  concerning  the  theft  of  the  affection  of  a  wife, 
with  the  accompanying  penalty,  going  as  high  as 
twenty  thousand  dollars." 

George  Masson  gasped.  Here  was  a  new  turn  of 
affairs.  But  he  set  his  teeth. 

"Twenty  thousand  dollars — think  of  that!"  he 
sneered  angrily. 

"That  is  what  I  said,  monsieur.     I  said  I  could 


The  clerk  of  the  court  keeps  a  promise 

save  you  money,  and  money  saved  is  money  earned. 
I  am  your  benefactor,  if  you  will  but  permit  me  to 
be  so,  monsieur.  I  would  save  you  from  the  law, 
and  from  the  damages  which  the  law  gives.  Can 
you  not  guess  what  would  be  given  in  a  court  of  the 
Catholic  province  of  Quebec,  against  the  violation 
of  a  good  man's  home?  Do  you  not  see  that  the 
business  is  urgent?" 

"Not  at  all,"  curtly  replied  the  master-carpenter. 

M.  Fille  bridled  up,  and  his  spare  figure  seemed 
to  gain  courage  and  dignity. 

"If  you  think  I  will  hold  my  peace  unless  you  give 
your  sacred  pledge,  you  are  mistaken,  monsieur.  I 
am  no  meddler,  but  I  have  had  much  kindness  at  the 
hands  of  Monsieur  and  Madame  Barbille,  and  I  will 
do  what  I  can  to  protect  them  and  their  daughter — • 
that  good  and  sweet  daughter, — from  the  machina- 
tions, corruptions  and  malfeasance — 

"Three  damn  good  words  for  the  Court,  bagosh!" 
exclaimed  Masson  with  a  jeer. 

"No,  with  a  man  devoid  of  honour,  I  shall  not 
hesitate,  for  the  Manor  Cartier  has  been  the  home 
of  domestic  peace,  and  Madame,  who  came  to  us  a 
stranger,  deserves  well  of  the  people  of  that  ancient 
abode  of  chivalry — the  chivalry  of  France." 

"When  we  are  wound  up,  what  a  humming  we 
can  make!"  laughed  George  Masson  sourly.  "Have 
you  quite  finished,  m'sieu'?" 

"The  matter  is  urgent,  you  will  admit,  monsieur?" 
again  demanded  M.  Fille  with  austerity. 

"Not  at  all." 

The  master-carpenter  was  defiant  and  insolent,  yet 
135 


The  Money  Master 


there  was  a  devilish  kind  of  humour  in  his  tone  as 
in  his  attitude. 

"You  will  not  heed  the  warning  I  give?"  The 
little  Clerk  pointed  to  the  open  page  of  the  Victorian 
statutes  before  him. 

"Not  at  all." 

"Then  I  shall,  with  profound  regret — 

Suddenly  George  Masson  thrust  his  face  forward 
near  that  of  M.  Fille,  who  did  not  draw  back. 

"You  will  inform  the  Court  that  the  prisoner 
refuses  to  incriminate  himself,  eh?"  he  inter- 
jected. 

"No,  monsieur,  I  will  inform  Monsieur  Barbille  of 
what  I  saw.  I  will  do  this  without  delay.  It  is  the 
one  thing  left  me  to  do." 

In  quite  a  grand  kind  of  way  he  stood  up  and 
bowed,  as  though  to  dismiss  his  visitor. 

As  George  Masson  did  not  move,  the  other  went 
to  the  door  and  opened  it.  "It  is  the  only  thing 
left  to  do,"  he  repeated,  as  he  made  a  gentle  gesture 
of  dismissal. 

"Not  at  all,  my  legal  bombardier.  Not  at  all, 
I  say.  All  you  know  Jean  Jacques  knows,  and  a 
good  deal  more — what  he  has  seen  with  his  own  eyes, 
and  understood  with  his  own  mind,  without  legal 
help.  So  you  see,  you've  kept  me  here  talking  when 
there's  no  need  and  while  my  business  waits.  It 
is  urgent,  M'sieu'  la  Fillette — your  business  is  stale. 
It  belongs  to  last  session  of  the  Court."  He  laughed 
at  his  joke.  "M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  and  I  under- 
stand each  other."  He  laughed  grimly  now.  "We 
know  each  other  like  a  book,  and  the  Clerk  of  the 

136 


The  clerk  of  the  court  keeps  a  promise 

Court  couldn't  get  in  an  adjective  that  would  make 
the  sense  of  it  all  clearer." 

Slowly  M.  Fille  shut  the  door,  and  very  slowly  he 
came  back.  Almost  blindly,  as  it  might  seem,  and 
with  a  moan,  he  dropped  into  his  chair.  His  eyes 
fixed  themselves  on  George  Masson. 

"Ah— that!"  he  said  helplessly.  "That!  The 
little  Zoe — dear  God,  the  little  Zo£,  and  the  poor 
Madame!"  His  voice  was  aching  with  pain  and 
repugnance. 

"If  you  were  not  such  an  icicle  naturally,  I'd 
be  thinking  your  interest  in  the  child  was  paternal," 
said  the  master-carpenter  roughly,  for  the  virtuous 
horror  of  the  other's  face  annoyed  him.  He  had 
had  a  vexing  day. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  on  his  feet  in  a  second. 
"Monsieur,  you  dare!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  dare  to 
multiply  your  crimes  in  that  shameless  way.  Be- 
gone! There  are  those  who  can  make  you  respect 
decency.  I  am  not  without  my  friends,  and  we  all 
stand  by  each  other  in  our  love  of  home — of  sacred 
home,  monsieur." 

There  was  something  right  in  the  master-car- 
penter at  the  bottom,  with  all  his  villainy.  It  was 
not  alone  that  he  knew  there  were  fifty  men  in  the 
parish  of  St.  Saviour's  who  would  man-handle  him 
for  such  a  suggestion,  and  for  what  he  had  done  at 
the  Manor  Cartier,  if  they  were  roused;  but  he  also 
had  a  sudden  remorse  for  insulting  the  man  who, 
after  all,  had  tried  to  do  him  a  service.  His  amende 
was  instant. 

"I  take  it  back  with  humble  apology — all  I  can 


The  Money  Master 


hold  in  both  hands,  m'sieu',"  he  said  at  once.  "I 
would  not  insult  you  so,  much  less  Madame  Bar- 
bille.  If  she'd  been  like  what  I've  hinted  at,  I 
wouldn't  have  gone  her  way,  for  the  promiscuous  is 
not  for  me.  I'll  tell  you  the  whole  truth  of  what 
happened  to-day — this  morning.  Last  night  I  met 
her  at  the  river,  and " 

Then  briefly  he  told  all  that  had  happened  to  the 
moment  when  Jean  Jacques  had  left  him  at  the 
flume  with  the  words,  "Moi,  je  suis  philosophe!" 
And  at  the  last  he  said: 

"I  give  you  my  word — my  oath  on  this" — he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  Testament  on  the  table — "that 
beyond  what  you  saw,  and  what  Jean  Jacques  saw, 
there  has  been  nothing."  He  held  up  a  hand  as 
though  taking  an  oath. 

"Name  of  God,  is  it  not  enough  what  there  has 
been?"  whispered  the  little  Clerk. 

"Oh,  as  you  think,  and  as  you  say!  It  is  quite 
enough  for  me  after  to-day.  I'm  a  teetotaller,  but 
I'm  not  so  fond  of  water  as  to  want  to  take  my 
eternal  bath  in  it."  He  shuddered  slightly.  "Bien 
stir,  I've  had  my  fill  of  the  Manor  Cartier  for  one 
day,  my  Clerk  of  the  Court." 

"Bien  stir,  it  was  enough  to  set  you  thinking, 
monsieur,"  was  the  dry  comment  of  M.  Fille,  who 
was  now  recovering  his  composure. 

At  that  moment  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door, 
and  another  followed  quickly;  then  there  entered 
without  waiting  for  a  reply — Carmen  Barbille. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE    MASTER-CARPENTER   HAS   A   PROBLEM 

THE  Clerk  of  the  Court  came  to  his  feet  with  a 
startled  "Merci!"  and  the  master-carpenter  fell 
back  with  a  smothered  exclamation.  Both  men  stared 
confusedly  at  the  woman  as  she  shut  the  door  slowly 
and,  as  it  might  seem,  carefully,  before  she  faced  them. 

"Here  I  am,  George,"  she  said,  her  face  alive  with 
vital  adventure. 

His  face  was  instantly  swept  by  a  storm  of  feeling 
for  her,  his  nature  responded  to  the  sound  of  her 
voice  and  the  passion  of  her  face. 

"Carmen — ah!"  he  said,  and  took  a  step  forward, 
then  stopped.  The  hoarse  feeling  in  his  voice  made 
her  eyes  flash  gratitude  and  triumph,  and  she  waited 
for  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms;  but  she  suddenly 
remembered  M.  Fille.  She  turned  to  him. 

"I  am  sorry  to  intrude,  m'sieu',"  she  said.  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  They  told  me  at  the  office  of 
avocat  Prideaux  that  M'sieu'  Masson  was  here.  So 
I  came;  but  be  sure  I  would  not  interrupt  you  if 
there  was  not  cause." 

M.  Fille  came  forward  and  took  her  hand  respect- 
fully. "Madame,  it  is  the  first  time  you  have 
honoured  me  here.  I  am  very  glad  to  receive  you. 


The  Money  Master 


Monsieur   and   Mademoiselle   Zo6,    they   are   with 
you?    They  will  also  come  in  perhaps?" 

M.  Fille  was  courteous  and  kind,  yet  he  felt  that 
a  duty  was  devolving  on  him,  imposed  by  his  su- 
perior officer,  Judge  Carcasson,  and  by  his  own 
conscience,  and  with  courage  he  faced  the  field  of 
trouble  which  his  simple  question  opened  up.  George 
Masson  had  but  now  said  there  had  been  nothing 
more  than  he  himself  had  seen  from  the  hill  behind 
the  Manor;  and  he  had  further  said,  in  effect,  that 
all  was  ended  between  Carmen  Barbille  and  himself; 
yet  here  they  were  together,  when  they  ought  to  be 
a  hundred  miles  apart  for  many  a  day.  Besides, 
there  was  the  look  in  the  woman's  face,  and  that 
intense  look  also  in  the  face  of  the  master-carpenter ! 
The  Clerk  of  the  Court,  from  sheer  habit  of  his  pro- 
fession, watched  human  faces  as  other  people  watch 
the  weather,  or  the  rise  or  fall  in  the  price  of  wheat 
and  potatoes.  He  was  an  archaic  little  official,  and 
apparently  quite  unsophisticated;  yet  there  was  hid- 
den behind  his  ascetic  face  a  quiet  astuteness  which 
would  have  been  a  valuable  asset  to  a  worldly- 
minded  and  ambitious  man.  Besides,  affection 
sharpens  the  wits.  Through  it  the  hovering,  pro- 
tecting sense  becomes  instinctive,  and  prescience 
takes  on  uncanny  certainty.  He  had  a  real  and  deep 
affection  for  Jean  Jacques  and  his  Carmen,  and  a 
deeper  one  still  for  the  child  Zo6;  and  the  danger 
to  the  home  at  the  Manor  Cartier  now  became  again 
as  sharp  as  the  knife  of  the  guillotine.  His  eyes  ran 
from  the  woman  to  the  man,  and  back  again,  and 
then  with  great  courage  he  repeated  his  question — 

140 


The  master-carpenter  has  a  problem 

"Monsieur  and  mademoiselle,  they  are  well — 
they  are  with  you,  I  hope,  madame?" 

She  looked  at  him  in  the  eyes  without  flinching, 
and  on  the  instant  she  was  aware  that  he  knew  all, 
and  that  there  had  been  talk  with  George  Masson. 
She  knew  the  little  man  to  be  as  good  as  ever  can  be, 
but  she  resented  the  fact  that  he  knew.  It  was  clear 
George  Masson  had  told  him — else  how  could  he 
know;  unless,  perhaps,  all  the  world  knew! 

' '  You  know  well  enough  that  I  have  come  alone,  my 
friend, ' '  she  answered.  ' '  It  is  no  place  for  Zo6 ;  and  it 
is  no  place  for  my  husband  and  him  together — "  she 
made  a  motion  of  the  head  towards  the  master-car- 
penter. "Santa  Maria,  you  know  it  very  well  in- 
deed!" 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  bowed,  but  made  no  reply. 
What  was  there  to  say  to  a  remark  like  that!  It 
was  clear  that  the  problem  must  be  worked  out 
alone  between  these  two  people,  though  he  was  not 
quite  sure  what  the  problem  was.  The  man  had 
said  the  thing  was  over;  but  the  woman  had  come, 
and  the  look  of  both  showed  that  it  was  not  all  over. 

What  would  the  man  do  ?  What  was  it  the  woman 
wished  to  do?  The  master-carpenter  had  said  that 
Jean  Jacques  had  spared  him,  and  meant  to  forgive 
his  wife.  No  doubt  he  had  done  so,  for  Jean  Jacques 
was  a  man  of  sentiment  and  chivalry,  and  there  was 
no  proof  that  there  had  been  anything  more  than  a 
few  mad  caresses  between  the  two  misdemeanants; 
yet  here  was  the  woman  with  the  man  for  whom  she 
had  imperilled  her  future  and  that  of  her  husband 
and  child! 

141 


The  Money  Master 


As  though  Carmen  understood  what  was  going 
on  in  his  mind,  she  said:  "Since  you  know  every- 
thing, you  can  understand  that  I  want  a  few  words 
with  M'sieu'  George  here  alone." 

"Madame,  I  beg  of  you,"  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
answered  instantly,  his  voice  trembling  a  little — 
"I  beg  that  you  will  not  be  alone  with  him.  As  I 
believe,  your  husband  is  willing  to  let  bygones  be 
bygones,  and  to  begin  to-morrow  as  though  there 
was  no  to-day.  In  such  case  you  should  not  see 
Monsieur  Masson  here  alone.  It  is  bad  enough  to 
see  him  here  in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Court, 
but  to  see  him  alone — what  would  Monsieur  Jean 
Jacques  say?  Also,  outside  there  in  the  street,  if 
our  neighbours  should  come  to  know  of  the  trouble, 
what  would  they  say?  I  wish  not  to  be  tiresome, 
but  as  a  friend,  a  true  friend  of  your  whole  family, 
madame — yes,  in  spite  of  all,  your  whole  family— 
I  hope  you  will  realize  that  I  must  remain  here.  I 
owe  it  to  a  past  made  happy  by  kindness  which  is 
to  me  like  life  itself.  Monsieur  Masson,  is  it  not 
so?"  he  added,  turning  to  the  master-carpenter. 

More  flushed  and  agitated  than  when  he  had 
faced  Jean  Jacques  in  the  flume,  the  master-carpenter 
said: 

"If  she  wants  a  few  words — of  farewell — alone 
with  me,  she  must  have  it,  M'sieu'  Fille.  The  other 
room — eh?  Outside  there" — he  jerked  a  finger  to- 
wards the  street — "they  won't  know  that  you  are 
not  with  us;  and  as  for  Jean  Jacques,  isn't  it  pos- 
sible for  a  Clerk  of  the  Court  to  stretch  the  truth  a 
little  ?  Isn't  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  a  manias  well  as  a 

142 


The  master-carpenter  has  a  problem 

mummy?  I'd  do  as  much  for  you,  little  lawyer,  any 
time.  A  word  to  say  farewell,  you  understand!" 
He  looked  M.  Fille  squarely  in  the  eye. 

"If  I  had  to  answer  M.  Jean  Jacques  on  such  a 
matter — and  so  much  at  stake — 

Masson  interrupted.  "Well,  if  you  like  we'll  bind 
your  eyes  and  put  wads  in  your  ears,  and  you  can 
stay,  so  that  you'll  have  been  in  the  room  all  the 
time,  and  yet  have  heard  and  seen  nothing  at  all. 
How  is  that,  m'sieu'?  It's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

M.  Fille  stood  petrified  for  a  moment  at  the 
audacity  of  the  proposition.  For  him,  the  Clerk 
of  the  Court,  to  be  blinded  and  made  ridiculous  with 
wads  in  his  ears— impossible ! 

"Grace  of  Heaven,  I  would  prefer  to  lie!"  he 
answered  quickly.  "I  will  go  into  the  next  room, 
but  I  beg  that  you  be  brief,  monsieur  and  madame. 
You  owe  it  to  yourselves  and  to  the  situation  to  be 
brief,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  you  owe  it  to  me.  I  am 
not  a  practised  Ananias." 

"As  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb,  m'sieu'," 
returned  Masson. 

"I  must  beg  that  you  will  make  your  farewells 
of  a  minute  and  no  more,"  replied  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court  firmly.  He  took  out  his  watch.  "It  is  six 
o'clock.  I  will  come  again  at  three  minutes  past 
six.  That  is  long  enough  for  any  farewell — even  on 
the  gallows." 

Not  daring  to  look  at  the  face  of  the  woman,  he 
softly  disappeared  into  the  other  room,  and  shut  the 
door  without  a  sound. 

"Too  good  for  this  world,"  remarked  the  master- 


The  Money  Master 


carpenter  when  the  door  closed  tight.  He  said  it 
after  the  disappearing  figure  and  not  to  Carmen. 
"I  don't  suppose  he  ever  kissed  a  real  grown-up 
woman  in  his  life.  It  would  have  shattered  his  frail 
little  carcass  if,  if" — he  turned  to  his  companion— 
"if  you  had  kissed  him,  Carmen.  He's  made  of 
tissue-paper, — not  tissue — and  apple-jelly.  Yes,  but 
a  stiff  little  backbone,  too,  or  he'd  not  have  faced 
me  down." 

Masson  talked  as  though  he  were  trying  to  gain 
time. 

"He  said  three  minutes,"  she  returned  with  a  look 
of  death  in  her  face.  As  George  Masson  had  talked 
with  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  she  had  come  to  see, 
in  so  far  as  agitation  would  permit,  that  he  was  not 
the  same  as  when  he  left  her  by  the  river  the  evening 
before. 

"There's  no  time  to  waste,"  she  continued. 
"You  spoke  of  farewells — twice  you  spoke,  and  three 
times  he  spoke  of  farewells  between  us.  Farewells 
—farewells — George !" 

With  sudden  emotion  she  held  out  her  arms, 
and  her  face  flushed  with  passion  and  longing. 

The  tempest  which  shook  her  shook  him  also,  and 
he  swayed  from  side  to  side  like  an  animal  uncertain 
if  the  moment  had  come  to  try  its  strength  with  its 
foe;  and  in  truth  the  man  was  righting  with  himself. 
His  moments  with  Jean  Jacques  at  the  flume  had 
expanded  him  in  a  curious  kind  of  way.  His  own 
arguments  while  he  was  fighting  for  his  life,  had,  in  a 
way,  convinced  himself.  She  was  a  rare  creature, 
and  she  was  alluring — more  alluring  than  she  had 

144 


The  master-carpenter  has  a  problem 

ever  been;  for  a  tragic  sense  had  made  her  thinner, 
had  refined  the  boldness  of  her  beauty,  had  given  a 
wonderful  lustre  to  her  eyes;  and  suffering  has  its 
own  attraction  to  the  degenerate.  But  he,  George 
Masson,  had  had  a  great  shock,  and  he  had  come 
out  of  the  jaws  of  death  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth. 
It  had  been  the  nearest  thing  he  had  ever  known; 
for  though  once  he  had  had  a  pistol  pointed  at  him, 
there  was  the  chance  that  it  might  miss  at  half-a- 
dozen  yards,  while  there  was  no  chance  of  the  lever 
of  the  flume  going  wrong;  and  water  and  a  mill- 
wheel  were  as  absolute  as  the  rope  of  the  gallows. 

In  a  sense  he  had  saved  himself  by  his  cleverness, 
but  if  Jean  Jacques  had  not  been  just  the  man  he 
was,  he  could  not  have  saved  himself.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  that  Jean  Jacques  had  acted  weakly. 
He  would  not  have  done  what  Jean  Jacques  had  done, 
had  Jean  Jacques  spoiled  his  home.  He  would  have 
sprung  the  lever;  but  he  was  not  so  mean  as  to 
despise  Jean  Jacques  because  he  had  foregone  his 
revenge.  This  master-carpenter  had  certain  gifts, 
or  he  could  not  have  caused  so  much  trouble  in  the 
world.  There  is  a  kind  of  subtlety  necessary  to 
allure  or  delude  even  the  humblest  of  women,  if  she 
is  not  naturally  bad;  and  Masson  had  had  expe- 
riences with  the  humblest,  and  also  with  those  a 
little  higher  up.  This  much  had  to  be  said  for  him, 
that  he  did  not  think  Jean  Jacques  contemptible 
because  he  had  been  merciful,  or  degraded  because 
he  had  chosen  to  forgive  his  wife. 

The  sight  of  the  woman,  as  she  stood  with  arms 
outstretched,  had  made  his  pulses  pound  in  his  veins, 

10  145 


The  Money  Master 


but  the  heat  was  suddenly  chilled  by  the  wave  of 
tragedy  which  had  passed  over  him.  When  he  had 
climbed  out  of  the  flume,  and  opened  the  lever  for 
the  river  to  rush  through,  he  had  felt  as  though  ice- 
cold  liquid  flowed  in  his  veins,  not  blood ;  and  all  day 
he  had  been  like  that.  He  had  moved  much  as  one 
in  a  dream,  and  he  had  felt  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  that  he  was  not  ready  to  bluff  creation.  He 
had  always  faced  things  down,  as  long  as  it  could 
be  done;  and  when  it  could  not,  he  had  retreated, 
with  the  comment  that  no  man  was  wise  who  took 
gruel  when  he  needn't.  He  was  now  face  to  face 
with  his  greatest  problem.  One  thing  was  clear— 
they  must  either  part  for  ever,  or  go  together,  and 
part  no  more.  There  could  be  no  half  measures. 
She  was  a  remarkable  woman  in  her  way,  with  a 
will  of  her  own,  and  a  kind  of  madness  in  her;  and 
there  could  be  no  backing  and  filling.  They  only 
had  three  minutes  to  talk  together  alone,  and  two  of 
them  were  up. 

Her  arms  were  held  out  to  him,  but  he  stood  still, 
and  before  the  fire  of  her  eyes  his  own  dropped. 

"No,  not  yet!"  he  exclaimed.  "It's  been  a  day 
—heaven  and  hell, what  a  day  it's  been!  He  had  me 
—like  that!"  He  opened  and  shut  his  hand  with 
fierce,  spasmodic  strength.  "And  he  let  me  go — 
oh,  let  me  go  like  a  fox  out  of  a  trap!  I've  had 
enough  for  one  day — blood  of  St.  Peter,  enough, 
enough!" 

The  flame  of  desire  in  her  eyes  suddenly  turned  to 
fury. 

"It  is  farewell,  then,  that  you  wish,"  she  said 
146 


The  master-carpenter  has  a  problem 

hoarsely.  "It  is  no  more  and  farewell  then?  You 
said  to  him" — she  pointed  to  the  other  room — "you 
said  it  to  Jean  Jacques,  and  you  say  it  to  me — to  me 
that's  given  you  all  I  have.  Ah,  what  a  beast  you 
are,  George  Masson!" 

"No,  Carmen,  you  have  not  given  me  all  If  you 
had,  there  would  be  no  farewell.  I  would  stand  by 
you  to  the  end  of  life,  if  I  had  taken  all."  He  lied, 
but  that  does  not  matter  here. 

"All— all!"  she  cried.  "What  is  all?  Is  it  but 
the  one  thing  that  the  world  says  must  part  hus- 
band and  wife?  Caramba!  Is  that  all?  I  have 
given  everything — I  have  had  your  arms  around 
me " 

"Yes,  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  saw  that,"  he  in- 
terrupted. "He  saw  from  the  hill  behind  the 
Manor  on  Tuesday  last." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door  of  the  other  room; 
it  slowly  opened,  and  the  figure  of  the  Clerk  ap- 
peared. 

"Two  minutes — just  two  minutes  more,  old 
trump!"  said  the  master-carpenter,  stretching  out 
a  hand. 

"One  minute  will  be  enough,"  said  Carmen,  who 
was  suffering  the  greatest  humiliation  which  can 
come  to  a  woman. 

The  Clerk  looked  at  them  both,  and  he  was  con- 
tent. He  saw  that  one  minute  would  certainly  be 
enough.  "Very  well,  monsieur  and  madame,"  he 
said,  and  closed  the  door  again. 

Carmen  turned  fiercely  on  the  man.  "M.  Fille 
saw,  did  he,  from  Mont  Violet?  Well,  when  I  came 

J47 


The  Money  Master 


here  I  did  not  care  who  saw.  I  only  thought  of  you 
— that  you  wanted  me,  and  that  I  wanted  you. 
What  the  world  thought  was  nothing,  if  you  were  as 
when  we  parted  last  night.  ...  I  could  not  face  Jean 
Jacques'  forgiveness.  To  stay  there,  feeling  that  I 
must  be  always  grateful,  that  I  must  be  humble,  that 
I  must  pretend,  that  I  must  lass  Jean  Jacques,  and 
lie  in  his  arms,  and  go  to  mass  and  to  confession, 
and " 

"There  is  the  child,  there  is  Zoe" " 

"Oh,  it  is  you  that  preaches  now — you  that 
tempted  me,  that  said  I  was  wasted  at  the  Manor; 
that  the  parish  did  not  understand  me;  that  Jean 
Jacques  did  not  know  a  jewel  of  price  when  he  saw 
it — little  did  you  think  of  Zoe  then!" 

He  made  a  protesting  gesture.  "Maybe  so,  Car- 
men, but  I  think  now  before  it  is  too  late." 

"The  child  loves  her  father  as  she  never  loved 
me,"  she  declared.  "She  is  twelve  years  old.  She 
will  soon  be  old  enough  to  keep  house  for  him,  and 
then  to  marry — ah,  before  there  is  time  to  think  she 
will  marry!" 

It  would  be  better  then  for  you  to  wait  till  she 
marries  before — before 

"Before  I  go  away  with  you!"  She  gave  a  shrill, 
agonized  laugh.  * '  So  that  is  the  end  of  it  all !  What 
did  you  think  of  my  child  when  you  forced  your  way 
into  my  life,  when  you  made  me  think  of  you — ah, 
quel  b§te — what  a  coward  and  beast  you  are!" 

"No,  I  am  not  all  coward,  though  I  may  be  a 
beast,"  he  answered.  "I  didn't  think  of  your  child 
when  I  began  to  talk  to  you  as  I  did,  I  was  out  for 

148 


The  master-carpenter  has  a  problem 

all  I  could  get.  I  was  the  hunter.  And  you  were 
the  finest  woman  that  I'd  ever  met  and  talked  with; 
you " 

"Oh,  stop  lying!"  she  cried  with  a  face  suddenly 
grown  white  and  cold. 

"It  isn't  lying.  You're  the  sort  of  woman  to 
drive  men  mad.  I  went  mad,  and  I  didn't  think  of 
your  child.  But  this  morning  in  the  flume  I  saved 
my  life  by  thinking  of  her,  and  I  saved  your  life,  too, 
maybe,  by  thinking  of  her;  and  I  owe  her  something. 
I'm  going  to  try  to  pay  back  by  letting  her  keep  her 
mother.  I  never  felt  towards  a  woman  as  I've  felt 
towards  you;  and  that's  why  I  want  to  make  things 
not  so  bad  for  you  as  they  might  be." 

In  her  bitter  eagerness  she  took  a  step  nearer  to 
him.  "As  things  might  be,  if  you  were  the  man  you 
were  yesterday,  willing  to  throw  up  everything  for 
me?" 

"Like  that — if  you  put  it  so,"  he  answered. 

She  walked  slowly  up  to  him,  looking  as  though 
she  would  plunge  a  knife  into  his  heart.  "I  wish 
Jean  Jacques  had  opened  the  gates,"  she  said.  "It 
would  have  saved  the  hangman  trouble." 

Then  suddenly,  and  with  a  cry,  she  raised  her 
hand  and  struck  him  full  in  the  face  with  her  fist. 
At  that  instant  came  a  tap  at  the  door  of  the  other 
room,  and  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  appeared.  He  saw 
the  blow,  and  drew  back  with  an  exclamation. 

Carmen  turned  to  him.  "Farewell  has  been  said, 
M'sieu'  Fille,"  she  remarked  in  a  voice  sombre  with 
rage  and  despair,  and  she  went  to  the  door  leading 
to  the  street. 

149 


The  Money  Master 


Masson  had  winced  at  the  blow,  but  he  remained 
silent.  He  knew  not  what  to  say  or  do. 

M.  Fille  hastily  followed  Carmen  to  the  door. 
"You  are  going  home,  dear  madame?  Permit  me 
to  accompany  you,"  he  said  gently.  "I  have  to 
do  business  with  Jean  Jacques." 

A  hand  upon  his  chest,  she  pushed  him  back. 

"Where  I  go  I'm  going  alone,"  she  said.  Open- 
ing the  door  she  went  out,  but  turning  back  again 
she  gave  George  Masson  a  look  that  he  never  for- 
got. Then  the  door  closed. 

"Grace  of  God,  she  is  not  going  home!"  brokenly 
murmured  the  Clerk  of  the  Court. 

With  a  groan  the  master-carpenter  started  for- 
ward towards  the  door,  but  M.  Fille  stepped  be- 
tween, laid  a  hand  on  his  arm,  and  stopped  him. 


EPOCH    THE    THIRD 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   MAN   FROM   OUTSIDE 

"Oh,  who  will  walk  the  wood  with  me, 
I  fear  to  walk  alone; 
So  young  am  I,  as  you  may  see; 
No  dangers  have  I  known. 

So  young,  so  small — ah,  yes,  m'sieu', 
I'll  walk  the  wood  with  you!" 

TN  the  last  note  of  the  song  applause  came  in- 
1  stantaneously,  almost  impatiently,  as  it  might 
seem.  With  cries  of  "Encore!  Encore!"  it  lasted 
some  time,  while  the  happy  singer  looked  around 
with  frank  pleasure  on  the  little  group  encircling  her 
in  the  Manor  Cartier. 

"Did  you  like  it  so  much?"  she  asked  in  a  gen- 
eral way,  and  not  looking  at  any  particular  person. 
A  particular  person,  however,  replied,  and  she  had 
addressed  the  question  to  him,  although  not  looking 
at  him.  He  was  the  Man  from  Outside,  and  he  sat 
near  the  bright  wood-fire;  for  though  it  was  almost 
June  the  night  was  cool  and  he  was  delicate. 

"Ah,  but  splendid,  but  splendid — it  got  into  every 
corner  of  every  one  of  us,"  the  Man  from  Outside 
responded,  speaking  his  fluent  French  with  a  slight 
English  accent,  which  had  a  pleasant  piquancy — at 


The  Money  Master 


least  to  the  ears  of  the  pretty  singer,  Mile.  Zo6 
Barbille.  He  was  a  man  of  about  thirty-three, 
clean-shaven,  dark-haired,  with  an  expression  of 
cleverness;  yet  with  an  irresponsible  something 
about  him  which  M.  Fille  had  reflected  upon  with 
concern.  For  this  slim,  eager,  talkative,  half -invalid 
visitor  to  St.  Saviour's  had  of  late  shown  a  marked 
liking  for  the  presence  and  person  of  Zoe  Barbille; 
and  Zo6  was  as  dear  to  M.  Fille  as  though  she  were 
his  own  daughter.  He  it  was  who,  in  sarcasm,  had 
spoken  of  this  young  stranger  as  "The  Man  from 
Outside." 

Ever  since  Zo6's  mother  had  vanished — alone — 
seven  years  before  from  the  Manor  Cartier,  or  rather 
from  his  office  at  Vilray,  M.  Fille  had  been  as  much 
like  a  maiden  aunt  or  a  very  elder  brother  to  the 
Spanische's  daughter  as  a  man  could  be.  Of  M. 
Fille's  influence  over  his  daughter  and  her  love  of 
his  companionship,  Jean  Jacques  had  no  jealousy 
whatever.  Very  often  indeed,  when  he  felt  incom- 
petent to  do  for  his  child  all  that  he  wished — 
philosophers  are  often  stupid  in  human  affairs — he 
thought  it  was  a  blessing  Zoe  had  a  friend  like  M. 
Fille.  Since  the  terrible  day  when  he  found  that  his 
wife  had  gone  from  him — not  with  the  master- 
carpenter  who  only  made  his  exit  from  Laplatte  some 
years  afterwards — he  had  had  no  desire  to  have  a 
woman  at  the  Manor  to  fill  her  place,  even  as  house- 
keeper. He  had  never  swerved  from  that.  He  had 
had  a  hard  row  to  hoe,  but  he  had  hoed  it  with  a  will 
not  affected  by  domestic  accidents  or  inconveniences. 
The  one  woman  from  outside  whom  he  permitted 

' 


The  man  from  outside 


to  go  and  come  at  will — and  she  did  not  come  often, 
because  she  and  M.  Fille  agreed  it  would  be  best 
not  to  do  so — was  the  sister  of  the  Cure.  To  be 
sure  there  was  Seraphe  Corniche,  the  old  cook,  but 
she  was  buried  in  her  kitchen,  and  Jean  Jacques 
treated  her  like  a  man. 

When  Zoe  was  confirmed,  and  had  come  back  from 
Montreal,  having  spent  two  years  in  a  convent  there 
—the  only  time  she  had  been  away  from  her  father 
in  seven  years — having  had  her  education  chiefly 
from  a  Catholic  "brother,"  the  situation  developed 
in  a  new  way.  Zoe  at  once  became  as  conspicu- 
ous in  the  country-side  as  her  father  had  been  over 
so  many  years.  She  was  fresh,  volatile,  without 
affectation  or  pride,  and  had  a  temperament  re- 
sponsive to  every  phase  of  life's  simple  interests. 
She  took  the  attention  of  the  young  men  a  little 
bit  as  her  due,  but  yet  without  conceit.  The  gallants 
had  come  about  her  like  bees,  for  there  was  Jean 
Jacques'  many  businesses  and  his  reputation  for 
wealth;  and  there  was  her  own  charm,  concerning 
which  there  could  be  far  less  doubt  than  about  Jean 
Jacques'  magnificent  solvency. 

Zoe  had  gone  heart-whole  and  with  no  especial 
preference  for  any  young  man,  until  the  particular 
person  came,  the  Man  from  Outside. 

His  name  was  Gerard  Fynes,  and  his  business 
was  mumming.  He  was  a  young  lawyer  turned 
actor,  and  he  had  lived  in  Montreal  before  he  went 
on  the  stage.  He  was  English — that  was  a  mis- 
fortune; he  was  an  actor — that  was  a  greater 
misfortune,  for  it  suggested  vagabondage  of  morals 


The  Money  Master 


as  well  as  of  profession;  and  he  was  a  Protestant, 
which  was  the  greatest  misfortune  of  all.  But  he  was 
only  at  St.  Saviour's  for  his  convalescence  after  a 
so-called  attack  of  congestion  of  the  lungs;  and  as 
he  still  had  a  slight  cough  and  looked  none  too 
robust,  and  as,  more  than  all,  he  was  simple  in  his 
ways,  enjoying  the  life  of  the  parish  with  greater 
zest  than  the  residents,  he  found  popularity.  Un- 
doubtedly he  had  a  taking  way  with  him.  He  was 
lodging  with  Louis  Charron,  a  small  farmer  and 
kinsman  of  Jean  Jacques,  who  sold  whisky — "white 
whisky" — without  a  license.  It  was  a  Charron 
family  habit  to  sell  liquor  illegally,  and  Louis  pur- 
sued the  career  with  all  an  amateur's  enthusiasm. 
He  had  a  sovereign  balm  for  "colds,"  composed  of 
camomile  flowers,  boneset,  liquorice,  pennyroyal  and 
gentian  root,  which  he  sold  to  all  comers;  and  it 
was  not  unnatural  that  a  visitor  with  weak  lungs 
should  lodge  with  him. 

Louis  and  his  wife  had  only  good  things  to  say 
about  Gerard  Fynes;  for  the  young  man  lived  their 
life  as  though  he  was  born  to  it.  He  ate  the  slap- 
jacks, the  buttermilk-pop,  the  pork  and  beans,  the 
Indian  corn  on  the  cob,  the  pea-soup,  and  the  bread 
baked  in  the  roadside  oven,  with  a  relish  which  was 
not  all  pretence;  for  indeed  he  was  as  primitive 
as  he  was  subtle.  He  himself  could  not  have  told 
how  much  of  him  was  true  and  how  much  was  make- 
believe.  But  he  was  certainly  lovable,  and  he  was 
not  bad  by  nature.  Since  coming  to  St.  Saviour's 
he  had  been  constant  to  one  attraction,  and  he  had 
not  risked  his  chances  with  Zoe  by  response  to  the 

156 


The  man  from  outside 


shy  invitations  of  dark  eyes,  young  and  not  so 
young,  which  met  his  own  here  and  there  in  the 
parish. 

Only  M.  Fille  and  Jean  Jacques  himself  had 
feelings  of  real  antagonism  to  him.  Jean  Jacques, 
though  not  naturally  suspicious,  had,  however,  seen 
an  understanding  look  pass  between  his  Zoe  and  this 
stranger — this  Protestant  English  stranger  from  the 
outer  world,  to  which  Jean  Jacques  went  less  fre- 
quently since  his  fruitless  search  for  his  vanished 
Carmen.  The  Clerk  of  the  Court  saw  that  Jean 
Jacques  had  observed  the  intimate  glances  of  the 
two  young  people,  and  their  eyes  met  in  understand- 
ing. It  was  just  before  Zo6  had  sung  so  charmingly, 
Oh,  Who  Witt  Walk  the  Wood  With  Me. 

At  first  after  Carmen's  going  Jean  Jacques  had 
found  it  hard  to  endure  singing  in  his  house.  Zo6's 
trilling  was  torture  to  him,  though  he  had  never 
forbidden  her  to  sing,  and  she  had  sung  on  to  her 
heart's  content.  By  a  subtle  instinct,  however,  and 
because  of  the  unspoken  sorrow  in  her  own  heart, 
she  never  sang  the  songs  like  La  Manola.  Never 
after  the  day  Carmen  went  did  Zo6  speak  of  her 
mother  to  anyone  at  all.  It  was  worse  than  death; 
it  was  annihilation,  so  far  as  speech  was  concerned. 
The  world  at  large  only  knew  that  Carmen  Barbille 
had  run  away,  and  that  even  Sebastian  Dolores 
her  father  did  not  know  where  she  was.  The  old 
man  had  not  heard  from  her,  and  he  seldom  visited 
at  the  Manor  Cartier  or  saw  his  grand-daughter. 
His  own  career  of  late  years  had  been  marked  by 
long  sojourns  in  Quebec,  Montreal  and  even  New 


The  Money  Master 


York;  yet  he  always  came  back  to  St.  Saviour's 
when  he  was  penniless,  and  was  there  started  afresh 
by  Jean  Jacques.  Some  said  that  Carmen  had  gone 
back  to  Spain,  but  others  discredited  that,  for,  if 
she  had  done  so,  certainly  old  Sebastian  Dolores 
would  have  gone  also.  Others  continued  to  insist 
that  she  had  gone  off  with  a  man;  but  there  was 
George  Masson  at  Laplatte  living  alone,  and  never 
going  twenty  miles  away  from  home,  and  he  was  the 
only  person  under  suspicion.  Others  again  averred 
that  since  her  flight  Carmen  had  become  a  loose 
woman  in  Montreal ;  but  the  New  Cure  came  down 
on  that  with  a  blow  which  no  one  was  tempted  to 
invite  again. 

M.  Savry's  method  of  punishing  was  of  a  kind  to 
make  men  shrink.  If  Carmen  Barbille  had  become 
a  loose  woman  in  Montreal,  how  did  any  member 
of  his  flock  know  that  it  was  the  case?  What  com- 
pany had  he  kept  in  Montreal  that  he  could  say 
that  ?  Did  he  see  the  woman — or  did  he  hear  about 
her?  And  if  he  heard,  what  sort  of  company  was 
he  keeping  when  he  went  to  Montreal  without  his 
wife  to  hear  such  things?  That  was  final,  and  the 
slanderer  was  under  a  cloud  for  a  time,  by  reason 
of  the  anger  of  his  own  wife.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  the  good  priest  preached  from  the  text, 
"Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged,"  and  said  that 
there  were  only  ten  commandments  on  the  tables 
of  stone;  but  that  the  ten  included  all  the  command- 
ments which  the  Church  made  for  every  man,  and 
which  every  man,  knowing  his  own  weakness,  must 
also  make  for  himself. 

158 


The  man  from  outside 


His  flock  understood,  though  they  did  refrain, 
every  one,  from  looking  towards  the  place  where 
Jean  Jacques  sat  with  Ma'm'selle — she  was  always 
called  that,  as  though  she  was  a  great  lady;  or  else 
she  was  called  "the  little  Ma'm'selle  Zoe,"  even  when 
she  had  grown  almost  as  tall  as  her  mother  had  been. 

Though  no  one  looked  towards  the  place  where 
Jean  Jacques  and  his  daughter  sat  when  this  sermon 
was  preached,  and  although  Zoe  seemed  not  to  ap- 
prehend personal  reference  in  the  priest's  words, 
when  she  reached  home,  after  talking  to  her  father 
about  casual  things  all  the  way,  she  flew  to  her 
room,  and,  locking  the  door,  flung  herself  on  her 
bed  and  cried  till  her  body  felt  as  though  it  had  been 
beaten  by  rods.  Then  she  suddenly  got  up  and, 
from  a  drawer,  took  out  two  things — an  old  photo- 
graph of  her  mother  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  and 
Carmen's  guitar,  which  she  had  made  her  own  on 
the  day  after  the  flight,  and  had  kept  hidden  ever 
since.  She  lay  on  the  bed  with  her  cheek  pressed 
to  the  guitar,  and  her  eyes  hungrily  feeding  on  the 
face  of  a  woman  whose  beauty  belonged  to  spheres 
other  than  where  she  had  spent  the  thirteen  years 
of  her  married  life. 

Zoe  had  understood  more  even  at  the  time  of  the 
crisis  than  they  thought  she  did,  child  though  she 
was;  and  as  the  years  had  gone  on  she  had  grasped 
the  meaning  of  it  all  more  clearly  perhaps  than  any- 
one at  all  except  her  adored  friends  Judge  Carcasson, 
at  whose  home  she  had  visited  in  Montreal,  and  M. 
Fille. 

The  thing  last  rumoured  about  her  mother  in  the 


The  Money  Master 


parish  was  that  she  had  become  an  actress.  To  this 
Zo6  made  no  protest  in  her  mind.  It  was  better 
than  many  other  possibilities,  and  she  fixed  her 
mind  on  it,  so  saving  herself  from  other  agonizing 
speculations.  In  a  fixed  imagination  lay  safety.  In 
her  soul  she  knew  that,  no  matter  what  happened, 
her  mother  would  never  return  to  the  Manor  Cartier. 

The  years  had  not  deepened  confidence  between 
father  and  daughter.  A  shadow  hung  between  them. 
They  laughed  and  talked  together,  were  even  boister- 
ous in  their  fun  sometimes,  and  yet  in  the  eyes  of 
both  was  the  forbidden  thing — the  deserted  city 
into  which  they  could  not  enter.  He  could  not 
speak  to  the  child  of  the  shame  of  her  mother;  she 
could  not  speak  of  that  in  him  which  had  contributed 
to  that  mother's  shame — the  neglect  which  existed 
to  some  degree  in  her  own  life  with  him.  This  was 
chiefly  so  because  his  enterprises  had  grown  to  such 
a  number  and  height,  that  he  seemed  ever  to  be 
counting  them,  ever  struggling  to  the  height,  while 
none  of  his  ventures  ever  reached  that  state  of 
success  when  it  "ran  itself";  although  as  years 
passed  men  called  him  rich,  and  he  spent  and  loaned 
money  so  freely  that  they  called  him  the  Money 
Master,  or  the  Money  Man  Wise,  in  deference  to 
his  philosophy. 

Zo£  was  not  beautiful,  but  there  was  a  wondrous 
charm  in  her  deep  brown  eyes  and  in  the  expression 
of  her  pretty,  if  irregular,  features.  Sometimes  her 
face  seemed  as  small  as  that  of  a  young  child,  and 
alive  with  eerie  fancies;  and  always  behind  her 
laughter  was  something  which  got  into  her  eyes, 

1 60 


The  man  from  outside 


giving  them  a  haunting  melancholy.  She  had  no 
signs  of  hysteria,  though  now  and  then  there  came 
heart-breaking  little  outbursts  of  emotion  which  had 
this  proof  that  they  were  not  hysteria — they  were 
never  seen  by  others.  They  were  sacred  to  her  own 
solitude.  While  in  Montreal  she  had  tasted  for  the 
first  time  the  joys  of  the  theatre,  and  had  then 
secretly  read  numbers  of  plays,  which  she  bought 
from  an  old  bookseller,  who  was  wise  enough  to 
choose  them  for  her.  She  became  possessed  of  a 
love  for  the  stage  even  before  Gerard  Fynes  came 
upon  the  scene.  The  beginning  of  it  all  was  the 
rumour  that  her  mother  was  now  an  actress;  yet 
the  root-cause  was  far  down  in  a  temperament  re- 
sponsive to  all  artistic  things. 

The  coming  of  the  Man  from  Outside  acted  on  the 
confined  elements  of  her  nature  like  the  shutter  of  a 
camera.  It  let  in  a  world  of  light  upon  unexplored 
places,  it  set  free  elements  of  being  which  had  not 
before  been  actiye.  She  had  been  instantly  drawn 
to  Gerard  Fynes.  He  had  the  distance  from  her 
own  life  which  provoked  interest,  and  in  that  dis- 
tance was  the  mother  whom  perhaps  it  was  her  duty 
to  forget,  yet  for  whom  she  had  a  longing  which 
grew  greater  as  the  years  went  on. 

Gerard  Fynes  could  talk  well,  and  his  vivid  pic- 
tures of  his  short  play-acting  career  absorbed  her; 
and  all  the  time  she  was  vigilant  for  some  name,  for 
the  description  of  some  actress  which  would  seem  to 
be  a  clue  to  the  lost  spirit  of  her  life.  This  clue  never 
came,  but  before  she  gave  up  hope  of  it,  the  man 
had  got  nearer  to  her  than  any  man  had  ever  done. 
11  161 


The  Money  Master 


After  meeting  him  she  awoke  to  the  fact  that  there 
was  a  difference  between  men,  that  it  was  not  the 
same  thing  to  be  young  as  to  be  old ;  that  the  reason 
why  she  could  kiss  the  old  Judge  and  the  little  Clerk 
of  the  Court,  and  not  kiss,  say,  the  young  manager 
of  the  great  lumber-firm  who  came  every  year  for  a 
fortnight's  fishing  at  St.  Saviour's,  was  one  which 
had  an  understandable  cause  and  was  not  a  mere 
matter  of  individual  taste.  She  had  been  good 
friends  with  this  young  manager,  who  was  only 
thirty  years  of  age,  and  was  married,  but  when  he 
had  wanted  to  kiss  her  on  saying  good-bye  one  re- 
cent summer,  she  had  said,  "Oh,  no,  oh,  no,  that 
would  spoil  it  all!"  Yet  when  he  had  asked  her  why, 
and  what  she  meant,  she  could  not  tell  him.  She 
did  not  know;  but  by  the  end  of  the  first  week  after 
Gerard  Fynes  had  been  brought  to  the  Manor  Cartier 
by  Louis  Charron,  she  knew. 

She  had  then  been  suddenly  awakened  from  mere 
girlhood.  Judge  Carcasson  saw  the  difference  in  her 
on  a  half-hour's  visit  as  he  passed  westward,  and  he 
had  said  to  M.  Fille,  "Who  is  the  man,  my  keeper 
of  the  treasure?"  The  reply  had  been  of  such  a 
sort  that  the  Judge  was  startled. 

"Tut,  tut,"  he  had  exclaimed,  "an  actor — an 
actor  once  a  lawyer!  That's  serious.  She's  at  an 
age — and  with  a  temperament  like  hers  she'll  be- 
lieve anything,  if  once  her  affections  are  roused. 
She  has  a  flair  for  the  romantic,  for  the  thing  that's 
out  of  reach — the  bird  on  the  highest  branch,  the 
bird  in  the  sky  beyond  ours,  the  song  that  was  lost 
before  time  was,  the  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or 

162 


The  man  from  outside 


land.  Why,  damn  it,  damn  it  all,  my  Solon,  here's 
the  beginning  of  a  case  in  Court  unless  we  can  lay 
the  fellow  by  the  heels!  How  long  is  he  here  for?" 

When  M.  Fille  had  told  him  that  he  would  stay 
for  another  month  for  certain,  and  no  doubt  much 
longer,  if  there  seemed  a  prospect  of  winning  the 
heiress  of  the  Manor  Cartier,  the  Judge  gave  a 
groan. 

"We  must  get  him  away,  somehow,"  he  said. 
"Where  does  he  stay?" 

"At  the  house  of  Louis  Charron,"  was  the  reply. 

"Louis  Charron — isn't  he  the  fellow  that  sells 
whisky  without  a  license?" 

"It  is  so,  monsieur." 

The  Judge  moved  his  head  from  side  to  side  like 
a  bear  in  a  cage.  "It  is  that,  is  it,  my  Fille?  By 
the  thumb  of  the  devil,  isn't  it  time  then  that  Louis 
Charron  was  arrested  for  breaking  the  law?  Also 
how  do  we  know  but  that  the  interloping  fellow 
Fynes  is  an  agent  for  a  whisky -firm  perhaps? 
Couldn't  he,  then,  on  suspicion,  be  arrested  with " 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  shook  his  head  mournfully. 
His  Judge  was  surely  becoming  childish  in  his  old  age. 
He  looked  again  closely  at  the  great  man,  and  saw  a 
glimmer  of  moisture  in  the  grey  eyes.  It  was  clear 
that  Judge  Carcasson  felt  deeply  the  dangers  of  the 
crisis,  and  that  the  futile  outburst  had  merely  been 
the  agitated  protest  of  the  helpless. 

"The  man  is  what  he  says  he  is — an  actor;  and 
it  would  be  folly  to  arrest  him.  If  our  Zoe  is 
really  fond  of  him,  it  would  only  make  a  martyr 
of  him," 

163 


The  Money  Master 


As  he  made  this  reply  M.  Fille  looked  furtively 
at  the  other — out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye,  as  it  were. 

The  reply  of  the  Judge  was  impatient,  almost 
peevish  and  rough.  "Did  you  think  I  was  in  ear- 
nest, my  punchinello?  Surely  I  don't  look  so  young 
as  all  that.  I  am  over  sixty-five,  and  am  therefore 
mentally  developed!" 

M.  Fille  was  exactly  sixty-five  years  of  age,  and 
the  blow  was  a  shrewd  one.  He  drew  himself  up 
with  rigid  dignity. 

"You  must  feel  sorry  sometimes  for  those  who 
suffered  when  your  mind  was  undeveloped,  mon- 
sieur," he  answered.  "You  were  a  judge  at  forty- 
nine,  and  you  defended  poor  prisoners  for  twenty 
years  before  that." 

The  Judge  was  conquered,  and  he  was  never  the 
man  to  pretend  he  was  not  beaten  when  he  was. 
He  admired  skill  too  much  for  that.  He  squeezed 
M.  Fille's  arm  and  said : 

"I've  been  quick  with  my  tongue  myself,  but  I 
feel  sure  now,  that  it's  through  long  and  close  asso- 
ciation with  my  Clerk  of  the  Court." 

"Ah,  monsieur,  you  are  so  difficult  to  under- 
stand!" was  the  reply.  "I  have  known  you  all  these 
years,  and  yet 

"And  yet  you  did  not  know  how  much  of  the 
woman  there  was  in  me!  .  .  .  But  yes,  it  is  that.  It 
is  that  which  I  fear  with  our  Zo6.  Women  break 
out — they  break  out,  and  then  there  is  the  devil  to 
pay.  Look  at  her  mother.  She  broke  out.  It  was 
not  inevitable.  It  was  the  curse  of  opportunity, 
the  wrong  thing  popping  up  to  drive  her  mad  at  the 

164 


The  man  from  outside 


wrong  moment.  Had  the  wrong  thing  come  at  the 
right  time  for  her,  when  she  was  quite  sane,  she 
would  be  yonder  now  with  our  philosopher.  Per- 
haps she  would  not  be  contented  if  she  were  there, 
but  she  would  be  there;  and  as  time  goes  on,  to  be 
where  we  were  in  all  things  which  concern  the  affec- 
tions, that  is  the  great  matter." 

"Ah,  yes,  ah,  yes,"  was  the  bright-eyed  reply  of 
that  Clerk,  "there  is  no  doubt  of  that!  My  sister 
and  I  there,  we  are  fifty  years  together,  never  with 
the  wrong  thing  at  the  wrong  time,  always  the  thing 
as  it  was,  always  to  be  where  we  were." 

The  Judge  shook  his  head.  "There  is  an  eternity 
of  difference,  Fille,  between  the  sister  and  brother 
and  the  husband  and  wife.  The  sacredness  of  isola- 
tion is  the  thing  which  holds  the  brother  and  sister 
together.  The  familiarity  of — but  never  mind  what 
it  is  that  so  often  forces  husband  and  wife  apart. 
It  is  there,  and  it  breaks  out  in  rebellion  as  it  did 
with  the  wife  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille.  As  she  was 
a  strong  woman  in  her  way,  it  spoiled  her  life  and 
his  too  when  it  broke  out." 

M.  Fille's  face  lighted  with  memory  and  feeling. 
"Ah,  a  woman  of  powerful  emotions,  monsieur,  that 
is  so!  I  think  I  never  told  you,  but  at  the  last,  in 
my  office,  when  she  went,  she  struck  George  Masson 
in  the  face.  It  was  a  blow  that — but  there  it  was; 
I  have  never  liked  to  think  of  it.  When  I  do,  I 
shudder.  She  was  a  woman  who  might  have  been 
in  other  circumstances — but  there!" 

The  Judge  suddenly  stopped  in  his  walk  and  faced 
round  on  his  friend.  "Did  you  ever  know,  my 

165 


The  Money  Master 


Solon,"  he  said,  "that  it  was  not  Jean  Jacques  who 
saved  Carmen  at  the  wreck  of  the  Antoine,  but  it  was 
she  who  saved  him;  and  yet  she  never  breathed  of 
it  in  all  the  years.  One  who  was  saved  from  the 
Antoine  told  me  of  it.  Jean  Jacques  was  going 
down.  Carmen  gave  him  her  piece  of  wreckage  to 
hang  on  to,  and  swam  ashore  without  help.  He 
never  gave  her  the  credit.  There  was  something  big 
in  the  woman,  but  it  did  not  come  out  right." 

M.  Fille  threw  up  his  hands.  "Grace  de  Dieu,  is  it 
so  that  she  saved  Jean  Jacques?  Then  he  would  not 
be  here  if  it  had  not  been  for  her?" 

"That  is  the  obvious  deduction,  Maitre  Fille," 
replied  the  Judge. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  seemed  moved.  "He  did 
not  treat  her  ill.  I  know  that  he  would  take  her 
back  to-morrow  if  he  could.  He  has  never  for- 
gotten. I  saw  him  weeping  one  day — it  was  where 
she  used  to  sing  to  the  flax-beaters  by  the  Beau 
Cheval.  I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said, 
'I  know,  I  comprehend;  but  be  a  philosopher,  Jean 
Jacques." 

"What  did  he  say?"  asked  the  Judge. 

"He  drew  himself  up.  'In  my  mind,  in  my  soul, 
I  am  philosopher  always,'  he  said,  'but  my  eyes  are 
the  windows  of  my  heart,  m'sieu'.  They  look  out 
and  see  the  sorrow  of  one  I  loved.  It  is  for  her  sor- 
row that  I  weep,  not  for  my  own.  I  have  my  child, 
I  have  money;  the  world  says  to  me,  "How  goes  it, 
my  friend?"  I  have  a  home — a  home;  but  where 
is  she,  and  what  does  the  world  say  to  her?'" 

The  Judge  shook  his  head  sadly.  ' '  I  used  to  think 

166 


The  man  from  outside 


I  knew  life,  but  I  come  to  the  belief  in  the  end  that  I 
know  nothing.  Who  could  have  guessed  that  he 
would  have  spoken  like  that!" 

"He  forgave  her,  monsieur." 

The  Judge  nodded  mournfully.  "Yes,  yes,  but 
I  used  to  think  it  is  such  men  who  forgive  one  day 
and  kill  the  next.  You  never  can  tell  where  they 
will  explode,  philosophy  or  no  philosophy." 

The  Judge  was  right.  After  all  the  years  that  had 
passed  since  his  wife  had  left  him,  Jean  Jacques  did 
explode.  It  was  the  night  of  his  birthday  party  at 
which  was  present  the  Man  from  Outside.  It  was  in 
the  hour  when  he  first  saw  what  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court  had  seen  some  time  before — the  understand- 
ing between  Zoe  and  Gerard  Fynes.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  there  was  any  danger.  Zoe 
had  been  so  indifferent  to  the  young  men  of  St. 
Saviour's  and  beyond,  had  always  been  so  much  his 
friend  and  the  friend  of  those  much  older  than 
himself,  like  Judge  Carcasson  and  M.  Fille,  that 
he  had  not  yet  thought  of  her  electing  to  go  and 
leave  him  alone. 

To  leave  him  alone!  To  be  left  alone — it  had 
never  become  a  possibility  to  his  mind.  It  did  not 
break  upon  him  with  its  full  force  all  at  once.  He 
first  got  the  glimmer  of  it,  then  the  glimmer  grew 
to  a  glow,  and  the  glow  to  a  great  red  light,  in 
which  his  brain  became  drunk,  and  all  his  phil- 
osophy was  burned  up  like  wood  -  shavings  in  a 
fiery  furnace. 

"Did  you  like  it  so  much?"  Zoe  had  asked  when 
167 


The  Money  Master 


her  song  was  finished,  and  the  Man  from  Outside 
had  replied,  "Ah,  but  splendid,  splendid!  It  got 
into  every  corner  of  every  one  of  us." 

"Into  the  senses — why  not  into  the  heart?  Songs 
are  meant  for  the  heart,"  said  Zoe. 

"Yes,  yes,  certainly,"  was  the  young  man's  reply, 
"but  it  depends  upon  the  song  whether  it  touches 
the  heart  more  than  the  senses.  Won't  you  sing 
that  perfect  thing,  A  la  Claire  Fontaine?"  he 
added,  with  eyes  as  bright  as  passion  and  the  hec- 
tic fires  of  his  lung-trouble  could  make  them. 

She  nodded  and  was  about  to  sing,  for  she  loved 
the  song,  and  it  had  been  ringing  in  her  head  all  day ; 
but  at  that  point  M.  Fille  rose,  and  with  his  glass 
raised  high — for  at  that  moment  Seraphe  Corniche 
and  another  carried  round  native  wine  and  cider 
to  the  company — he  said : 

"To  Monsieur  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  and  his 
fifty  years,  good  health — bonne  sante!  This  is  his 
birthday.  To  a  hundred  years  for  Jean  Jacques!" 

Instantly  everyone  was  up  with  glass  raised,  and 
Zo6  ran  and  threw  her  arms  round  her  father's  neck. 
"Kiss  me  before  you  drink,"  she  said. 

With  a  touch  almost  solemn  in  its  tenderness 
Jean  Jacques  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder  and  kissed 
her  hair,  then  her  forehead.  "My  blessed  one — my 
angel,"  he  whispered;  but  there  was  a  look  in  his 
eyes  which  only  M.  Fille  had  seen  there  before.  It 
was  the  look  which  had  been  in  his  eyes  at  the  flax- 
beaters'  place  by  the  river. 

"Sing — father,  you  must  sing,"  said  Zoe,  and 
motioned  to  the  fiddler.  "Sing  It's  Fifty  Years," 

1 68 


The  man  from  outside 


she  cried  eagerly.     They  all  repeated  her  request, 
and  he  could  but  obey. 

Jean  Jacques'  voice  was  rather  rough,  but  he  had 
some  fine  resonant  notes  in  it,  and  presently,  with 
eyes  fastened  on  the  distance,  and  with  free  gesture 
and  much  expression,  he  sang  the  first  verse  of  the 
haunting  ballad  of  the  man  who  had  reached  his 
fifty  years: 

"Wherefore  these  flowers?    This  f£te  for  me? — 
Ah  no,  it  is  not  fifty  years, 
Since  in  my  eyes  the  light  you  see 
First  shone  upon  life's  joys  and  tears! 
How  fast  the  heedless  days  have  flown — 
Too  late  to  wail  the  misspent  hours, 
To  mourn  the  vanished  friends  I've  known, 
To  kneel  beside  love's  ruined  bowers. 
Ah,  have  I  then  seen  fifty  years, 
With  all  their  joys  and  hopes  and  fears!" 

Through  all  the  verses  he  ranged,  his  voice  im- 
proving with  each  phrase,  growing  more  resonant, 
till  at  last  it  rang  out  with  a  ragged  richness  which 
went  home  to  the  hearts  of  all.  He  was  possessed. 
All  at  once  he  was  conscious  that  the  beginning  of  the 
end  of  things  was  come  for  him;  and  that  now,  at 
fifty,  in  no  sphere  had  he  absolutely  "arrived," 
neither  in  home  nor  fortune,  nor — but  yes,  there  was 
one  sphere  of  success;  there  was  his  fatherhood. 
There  was  his  daughter,  his  wonderful  Zoe.  He 
drew  his  eyes  from  the  distance,  and  saw  that  her 
ardent  look  was  not  towards  him,  but  towards  one 
whom  she  had  known  but  a  few  weeks. 

Suddenly  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  verse,  and 
169 


The  Money  Master 


broke  forward  with  his  arms  outstretched,  laughing. 
He  felt  that  he  must  laugh,  or  he  would  cry ;  and  that 
would  be  a  humiliating  thing  to  do. 

"Come,  come,  my  friends,  my  children,  enough 
of  that!"  he  cried.  "We'll  have  no  more  maunder- 
ing. Fifty  years — what  are  fifty  years!  Think  of 
Methuselah!  It's  summer  in  the  world  still, and  it's 
only  spring  at  St.  Saviour's.  It's  the  time  of  the 
first  flowers.  Let's  dance — no,  no,  never  mind  the 
Cur6  to-night!  He  will  not  mind.  I'll  settle  it  with 
him.  We'll  dance  the  gay  quadrille." 

He  caught  the  hands  of  the  two  youngest  girls 
present,  and  nodded  at  the  fiddler,  who  at  once 
began  to  tune  his  violin  afresh.  One  of  the  joyous 
young  girls,  however,  began  to  plead  with  him. 

"Ah,  no,  let  us  dance,  but  at  the  last — not  yet, 
M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques!  There  is  Zoe's  song,  we  must 
have  that,  and  then  we  must  have  charades.  Here  is 
M'sieu'  Fynes — he  can  make  splendid  charades 
for  us.  Then  the  dance  at  the  last — ah,  yes,  yes, 
M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques!  Let  it  be  like  that.  We  all 
planned  it,  and  though  it  is  your  birthday,  it's  us 
are  making  the  f£te." 

"As  you  will  then,  as  you  will,  little  ones,"  Jean 
Jacques  acquiesced  with  a  half  -  sigh ;  but  he  did 
not  look  at  his  daughter.  Somehow,  suddenly, 
a  strange  constraint  possessed  him  where  Zoe  was 
concerned. 

"Then  let  us  have  Zoe's  song;  let  us  have  A  la 
Claire  Fontaine,'"  cried  the  black-eyed  young  mad- 
cap who  held  Jean  Jacques'  arms. 

But  Zoe  interrupted.  "No,  no,"  she  protested, 

170 


The  man  from  outside 


"the  singing  spell  is  broken.  We  will  have  the  song 
after  the  charades — after  the  charades." 

"Good,  good — after  the  charades!"  they  all 
cried,  for  there  would  be  charades  like  none  which 
had  ever  been  played  before,  with  a  real  actor  to 
help  them,  to  carry  them  through  as  they  did  on 
the  stage.  To  them  the  stage  was  compounded  of 
mystery,  gaiety  and  the  forbidden. 

So,  for  the  next  half-hour  they  were  all  at  the 
disposal  of  the  Man  from  Outside,  who  worked  as 
though  it  was  a  real  stage,  and  they  were  real  players, 
and  there  were  great  audiences  to  see  them.  It  was 
all  quite  wonderful,  and  it  involved  certain  posings, 
attitudes,  mimicry  and  pantomime,  for  they  were 
really  ingenious  charades. 

So  it  happened  that  Zoe's  fingers  often  came  in 
touch  with  those  of  the  stage-manager,  that  his  hands 
touched  her  shoulders,  that  his  cheek  brushed  against 
her  dark  hair  once,  and  that  she  had  sensations 
never  experienced  before.  Why  was  it  that  she 
thrilled  when  she  came  near  to  him,  that  her  whole 
body  throbbed  and  her  heart  fluttered  when  their 
shoulders  or  arms  touched?  Her  childlike  nature, 
with  all  its  warmth  and  vibration  of  life,  had  never 
till  now  felt  the  stir  of  sex  in  its  vital  sense.  All 
men  had  in  one  way  been  the  same  to  her ;  but  now 
she  realized  that  there  was  a  world-wide  difference 
between  her  Judge  Carcasson,  her  little  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  and  this  young  man  whose  eyes  drank  hers. 
She  had  often  been  excited,  even  wildly  agitated,  had 
been  like  a  sprite  let  loose  in  quiet  ways;  but  that 
was  mere  spirit.  Here  was  body  and  senses  too; 

171 


The  Money  Master 


here  was  her  whole  being  alive  to  a  music,  which 
had  an  aching  sweetness  and  a  harmony  coaxing 
every  sense  into  delight. 

"To-morrow  evening,  by  the  flume,  where  the 
beech-trees  are — come — at  six.  I  want  to  speak 
with  you.  Will  you  come?" 

Thus  whispered  the  maker  of  this  music  of  the 
senses,  who  directed  the  charades,  but  who  was  also 
directing  the  course  of  another  life  than  his  own. 

"Yes,  if  I  can,"  was  Zo6's  whispered  reply,  and  the 
words  shook  as  she  said  them;  for  she  felt  that  their 
meeting  in  the  beech-trees  by  the  flume  would  be  of 
consequence  beyond  imagination. 

Judge  Carcasson  had  always  said  that  Zoe  had 
judgment  beyond  her  years;  M.  Fille  had  remarked 
often  that  she  had  both  prudence  and  shrewdness 
as  well  as  a  sympathetic  spirit;  but  M.  Fille's  little 
whispering  sister,  who  could  never  be  tempted  away 
from  her  home  to  any  house,  to  whom  the  market 
and  the  church  were  like  pilgrimages  to  distant 
wilds,  had  said  to  her  brother: 

"Wait,  Armand — wait  till  Zoe"  is  waked,  and  then 
prudence  and  wisdom  will  be  but  accident.  If  all 
goes  well,  you  will  see  prudence  and  wisdom;  but 
if  it  does  not,  you  will  see — ah,  but  just  Zoe!" 

The  now  alert  Jean  Jacques  had  seen  the  whisper- 
ing of  the  two,  though  he  did  not  know  what  had 
been  said.  It  was,  however,  something  secret,  and  if 
it  was  secret,  then  it  was — yes,  it  was  love;  and  love 
between  his  daughter  and  that  waif  of  the  world — 
the  world  of  the  stage — in  which  men  and  women 
were  only  grown-up  children,  and  bad  grown-up 

172 


TO-MORROW    EVENING,     BY    THE    FLUME — COME.      I    WANT 


SPEAK    WITH    YOU.      WILL    YOU   COME?"    HE    WHISPERED 


The  man  from  outside 


children  at  that — it  was  not  to  be  endured.  One 
thing  was  sure,  the  man  should  come  to  the  Manor 
Cartier  no  more.  He  would  see  to  that  to-morrow. 
There  would  be  no  faltering  or  paltering  on  his  part. 
His  home  had  been  shaken  to  its  foundations  once, 
and  he  was  determined  that  it  should  not  fall  about 
his  ears  a  second  time.  An  Englishman,  an  actor, 
a  Protestant,  and  a  renegade  lawyer !  It  was  not  to 
be  endured. 

The  charade  now  being  played  was  the  best  of 
the  evening.  One  of  the  madcap  friends  of  Zo6  was 
to  be  a  singing-girl.  She  was  supposed  to  carry  a 
tambourine.  When  her  turn  to  enter  came,  with  a 
look  of  mischief  and  a  gay  dancing  step,  she  ran 
into  the  room.  In  her  hands  was  a  guitar,  not  a 
tambourine. 

When  Zoe  saw  the  guitar  she  gave  a  cry. 

"Where  did  you  get  that?"  she  asked  in  a  low, 
shocked,  indignant  voice. 

"In  your  room — your  bedroom,"  was  the  half- 
frightened  answer.  "I  saw  it  on  the  dresser,  and  I 
took  it." 

"Come,  come,  let's  get  on  with  the  charade," 
urged  the  Man  from  Outside. 

On  the  instant's  pause,  in  which  Zo6  looked  at  her 
lover  almost  involuntarily,  and  without  fully  under- 
standing what  he  said,  someone  else  started  forward 
with  a  smothered  exclamation — of  anger,  of  horror, 
of  dismay.  It  was  Jean  Jacques.  He  was  suddenly 
transformed. 

His  eyes  were  darkened  by  hideous  memory,  his 
face  alight  with  passion.  He  caught  from  the  girl's 


The  Money  Master 


hands  the  guitar — Carmen's  forgotten  guitar  which 
he  had  not  seen  for  seven  years — how  well  he  knew 
it! 

With  both  hands  he  broke  it  across  his  knee.  The 
strings,  as  they  snapped,  gave  a  shrill,  wailing  cry, 
like  a  voice  stopped  suddenly  by  death.  Stepping 
jerkily  to  the  fireplace  he  thrust  it  into  the  flame. 

"Ah,  there!"  he  said  savagely.     "There — there!" 

When  he  turned  round  slowly  again,  his  face — 
which  he  had  never  sought  to  control  before  he  had 
his  great  Accident  seven  years  ago — was  under  his 
command.  A  strange,  ironic — almost  sardonic — 
smile  was  on  his  lips. 

"It's  in  the  play,"  he  said. 

"No,  it's  not  in  the  charade,  Monsieur  Barbille," 
said  the  Man  from  Outside  fretfully. 

"That  is  the  way  I  read  it,  m'sieu',"  retorted  Jean 
Jacques,  and  he  made  a  motion  to  the  fiddler. 

"The  dance!    The  dance!"  he  exclaimed. 

But  yet  he  looked  little  like  a  man  who  wished 
to  dance,  save  upon  a  grave. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"l   DO   NOT   WANT   TO   GO  " 

IT  is  a  bad  thing  to  call  down  a  crisis  in  the  night- 
time. A  "scene"  at  midnight  is  a  savage  enemy 
of  ultimate  understanding,  and  that  Devil,  called 
Estrangement,  laughs  as  he  observes  the  objects 
of  his  attention  in  conflict  when  the  midnight  candle 
burns. 

He  should  have  been  seized  with  a  fit  of  remorse, 
however,  at  the  sight  he  saw  in  the  Manor  Cartier 
at  midnight  of  the  day  when  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 
had  reached  his  fiftieth  year.  There  is  nothing 
which,  for  pathos  and  for  tragedy,  can  compare  with 
a  struggle  between  the  young  and  the  old. 

The  Devil  of  Estrangement  when  he  sees  it,  may 
go  away  and  indulge  himself  in  sleep;  for  there  will 
be  no  sleep  for  those  who,  one  young  and  the  other 
old,  break  their  hearts  on  each  other's  anvils,  when 
the  lights  are  low  and  it  is  long  till  morning. 

When  Jean  Jacques  had  broken  the  forgotten 
guitar  which  his  daughter  had  retrieved  from  her 
mother's  life  at  the  Manor  Cartier  (all  else  he  had 
had  packed  and  stored  away  in  the  flour-mill  out  of 


The  Money  Master 


sight)  and  thrown  it  in  the  fire,  there  had  begun  a 
revolt  in  the  girl's  heart,  founded  on  a  sense  of  in- 
justice, but  which  itself  became  injustice  also;  and 
that  is  a  dark  thing  to  come  between  those  who  love 
— even  as  parent  and  child. 

After  her  first  exclamation  of  dismay  and  pain, 
Zoe  had  regained  her  composure,  and  during  the  rest 
of  the  evening  she  was  full  of  feverish  gaiety.  In- 
deed her  spirits  and  playful  hospitality  made  the 
evening  a  success  in  spite  of  the  skeleton  at  the  feast. 
Jean  Jacques  had  also  roused  himself,  and,  when 
the  dance  began,  he  joined  in  with  spirit,  though  his 
face  was  worn  and  haggard  even  when  lighted  by  his 
smile.  But  though  the  evening  came  to  the  con- 
ventional height  of  hilarity,  there  was  a  note  run- 
ning through  it  which  made  even  the  youngest  look 
at  each  other,  as  though  to  say,  "Now,  what's 
going  to  happen  next!" 

Three  people  at  any  rate  knew  that  something  was 
going  to  happen.  They  were  Zoe,  the  Man  from 
Outside  and  M.  Fille.  Zoe  had  had  more  than  one 
revelation  that  night,  and  she  felt  again  as  she  did 
one  day,  seven  years  before,  when,  coming  home 
from  over  the  hills,  she  had  stepped  into  a  house 
where  Horror  brooded  as  palpably  as  though  it  sat 
beside  the  fire,  or  hung  above  the  family  table.  She 
had  felt  something  as  soon  as  she  had  entered  the 
door  that  far-off  day,  though  the  house  seemed 
empty.  It  was  an  emptiness  which  was  filled  with 
a  torturing  presence  or  torturing  presences.  It  had 
stilled  her  young  heart.  What  was  it?  She  had 
learned  the  truth  soon  enough.  Out  of  the  sunset 

176 


:I  do  not  want  to  go 


had  come  her  father  with  a  face  twisted  with  misery, 
and  as  she  ran  to  him,  he  had  caught  her  by  both 
shoulders,  looked  through  her  eyes  to  something  far 
beyond,  and  hoarsely  said:  "She  is  gone — gone  from 
us!  She  has  run  away  from  home!  Curse  her 
baptism — curse  it,  curse  it!" 

Zoe  could  never  forget  these  last  words  she  had 
ever  heard  her  father  speak  of  Carmen.  They  were 
words  which  would  make  any  Catholic  shudder  to 
hear.  It  was  a  pity  he  had  used  them,  for  they 
made  her  think  at  last  that  her  mother  had  been 
treated  with  injustice.  This,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that 
in  the  days,  now  so  far  away,  when  her  mother  was 
with  them  she  had  ever  been  nearer  to  her  father, 
and  that,  after  first  childhood,  she  and  her  mother 
were  not  so  close  as  they  had  been,  when  she  went  to 
sleep  to  the  humming  of  a  chanson  of  Cadiz.  Her 
own  latent  motherhood,  however,  kept  stealing  up 
out  of  the  dim  distances  of  childhood's  ignorance  and, 
with  modesty  and  allusiveness,  whispering  knowl- 
edge in  her  ear.  So  it  was  that  now  she  looked  back 
pensively  to  the  years  she  had  spent  within  sight  and 
sound  of  her  handsome  mother,  and  out  of  the 
hunger  of  her  own  spirit  she  had  come  to  idealize 
her  memory.  It  was  good  to  have  a  loving  father; 
but  he  was  a  man,  and  he  was  so  busy  just  when  she 
wanted — when  she  wanted  she  knew  not  what,  but 
at  least  to  go  and  lay  her  head  on  a  heart  that  would 
understand  what  was  her  sorrow,  her  joy  or  her 
longing. 

And  now  here  at  last  was  come  Crisis,  which 
showed  its  thunderous  head  in  the  gay  dance,  and 
12  177 


The  Money  Master 


shook  its  war-locks  in  the  fire,  where  her  mother's 
guitar  had  shrieked  in  its  last  agony. 

When  all  the  guests  had  gone,  when  the  bolts  had 
been  shot  home,  and  old  Seraphe  Corniche  had  gone 
to  bed,  father  and  daughter  came  face  to  face. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  as  the  two  looked  at 
each  other,  and  then  Zoe  came  up  to  Jean  Jacques 
to  kiss  him  good-night.  It  was  her  way  of  facing  the 
issue.  Instinctively  she  knew  that  he  would  draw 
back,  and  that  the  struggle  would  begin.  It  might 
almost  seem  that  she  had  invited  it;  for  she  had  let 
the  Man  from  Outside  hold  her  hand  for  far  longer 
than  courtesy  required,  while  her  father  looked  on 
with  fretful  eyes — even  with  a  murmuring  which  was 
not  a  benediction.  Indeed,  he  had  evaded  shaking 
hands  with  his  hated  visitor  by  suddenly  offering 
him  a  cigar,  and  then  in  the  doorway  itself  handing 
a  lighted  match. 

"His  eminence,  Cardinal  Christophe,  gave  these 
cigars  to  me  when  he  passed  through  St.  Saviour's 
five  years  ago,"  Jean  Jacques  had  remarked  loftily, 
"and  I  always  smoke  one  on  my  birthday.  I  am  a 
good  Catholic,  and  his  eminence  rested  here  for  a 
whole  day." 

He  had  had  a  grim  pleasure  in  avoiding  the  hand- 
shake, and  in  having  the  Protestant  outsider  smoke 
the  Catholic  cigar!  In  his  anger  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  done  something  worthy  almost  of  the 
Vatican,  indeed  of  the  great  Cardinal  Christophe 
himself.  Even  in  his  moments  of  crisis,  in  his  hours 
of  real  tragedy,  in  the  times  when  he  was  shaken  to 

178 


rl  do  not  want  to  go 


the  centre,  Jean  Jacques  fancied  himself  more  than  a 
little.  It  was  as  the  master-carpenter  had  remarked 
seven  years  before,  he  was  always  involuntarily  say- 
ing, "Here  I  come — look  at  me.  I  am  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille!" 

When  Zo6  reached  out  a  hand  to  touch  his  arm,  and 
raised  her  face  as  though  to  kiss  him  good-night, 
Jean  Jacques  drew  back. 

"Not  yet,  Zoe,"  he  said.  "There  are  some  things 
— What  is  all  this  between  you  and  that  man?  .  .  . 
I  have  seen.  You  must  not  forget  who  you  are — 
the  daughter  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  of  the  Manor 
Cartier,  whose  name  is  known  in  the  whole  province, 
who  was  asked  to  stand  for  the  legislature.  You  are 
Zoe  Barbille — Mademoiselle  Zo6  Barbille.  We  do  not 
put  on  airs.  We  are  kind  to  our  neighbours,  but  I  am 
descended  from  the  Baron  of  Beaugard.  I  have  a 
place — yes,  a  place  in  society;  and  it  is  for  you  to 
respect  it.  You  comprehend?" 

Zoe  flushed,  but  there  was  no  hesitation  whatever 
in  her  reply.  "I  am  what  I  have  always  been,  and 
it  is  not  my  fault  that  I  am  the  daughter  of  M.  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille !  I  have  never  done  anything  which 
was  not  good  enough  for  the  Manor  Cartier."  She 
held  her  head  firmly  as  she  said  it. 

Now  Jean  Jacques  flushed,  and  he  did  hesitate  in 
his  reply.  He  hated  irony  in  anyone  else,  though  he 
loved  it  in  himself,  when  heaven  gave  him  inspiration 
thereto.  He  was  in  a  state  of  tension,  and  was  ready 
to  break  out,  to  be  a  force  let  loose — that  is  the  way 
he  would  have  expressed  it;  and  he  was  faced  by  a 
new  spirit  in  his  daughter  which  would  surely  spring 

179 


The  Money  Master 


the  mine,  unless  he  secured  peace  by  strategy.  He 
had  sense  enough  to  feel  the  danger. 

He  did  not  see,  however,  any  course  for  diplomacy 
here,  for  she  had  given  him  his  cue  in  her  last  words. 
As  a  pure  logician  he  was  bound  to  take  it,  though 
it  might  lead  to  drama  of  a  kind  painful  to]  them 
both. 

"It  is  not  good  enough  for  the  Manor  Cartier  that 
you  go  falling  in  love  with  a  nobody  from  nowhere," 
he  responded. 

"I  am  not  falling  in  love,"  she  rejoined. 

"What  did  you  mean,  then,  by  looking  at  him  as 
you  did;  by  whispering  together;  by  letting  him 
hold  your  hand  when  he  left,  and  him  looking  at  you 
as  though  he'd  eat  you  up — without  sugar!" 

"I  said  I  was  not  falling  in  love,"  she  persisted 
quietly,  but  with  characteristic  boldness.  "I  am 
in  love." 

"You  are  in  love  with  him — with  that  interloper! 
Heaven  of  heavens,  do  you  speak  the  truth?  Answer 
me,  Zo6  Barbille." 

She  bridled.  "Certainly  I  will  answer.  Did  you 
think  I  would  let  a  man  look  at  me  as  he  did,  that  I 
would  look  at  a  man  as  I  looked  at  him,  that  I  would 
let  him  hold  my  hand  as  I  did,  if  I  did  not  love  him? 
Have  you  ever  seen  me  do  it  before?" 

Her  voice  was  even  and  quiet — as  though  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  on  a  course,  and  meant  to  carry 
it  through  to  the  end. 

"No,  I  never  saw  you  look  at  a  man  like  that,  and 
everything  is  as  you  say,  but —  "  his  voice  suddenly 
became  uneven  and  higher-pitched  and  a  little  hoarse, 

180 


I  do  not  want  to  go 


"but  he  is  English,  he  is  an  actor — only  that;  and 
he  is  a  Protestant." 

"Only  that?"  she  asked,  for  the  tone  of  his  voice 
was  such  as  one  would  use  in  speaking  of  a  toad  or 
vermin,  and  she  could  not  bear  it.  "Is  it  a  disgrace 
to  be  any  one  of  those  things?" 

"The  Barbilles  have  been  here  for  two  hundred 
years;  they  have  been  French  Catholics  since  the 
time  of" — he  was  not  quite  sure — "since  the  time  of 
Louis  XL,"  he  added  at  a  venture,  and  then  paused, 
overcome  by  his  own  rashness. 

"Yes,  that  is  a  long  time,"  she  said,  "but  what 
difference  does  it  make?  We  are  just  what  we  are 
now,  and  as  if  there  never  had  been  a  Baron  of  Beau- 
gard.  What  is  there  against  Gerard  except  that  he 
is  an  actor,  that  he  is  English,  and  that  he  is  a  Protes- 
tant? Is  there  anything?" 

"Sacr£,  is  it  not  enough?  An  actor,  what  is  that — 
to  pretend  to  be  someone  else  and  not  to  be  yourself!" 

"It  would  be  better  for  a  great  many  people  to  be 
someone  else  rather  than  themselves — for  nothing; 
and  he  does  it  for  money." 

"For  money!  '  What  money  has  he  got?  You 
don't  know.  None  of  us  know.  Besides,  he's  a 
Protestant,  and  he's  English,  and  that  ends  it. 
There  never  has  been  an  Englishman  or  a  Protes- 
tant in  the  Barbille  family,  and  it  sha'n't  begin  at 
the  Manor  Cartier." 

Jean  Jacques'  voice  was  rising  in  proportion  as  he 
perceived  her  quiet  determination.  Here  was  some- 
thing of  the  woman  who  had  left  him  seven  years  ago 
— left  this  comfortable  home  of  his  to  go  to  disgrace 

181 


The  Money  Master 


and  exile,  and  God  only  knew  what  else!  Here  in 
this  very  room — yes,  here  where  they  now  were, 
father  and  daughter,  stood  husband  and  wife  that 
morning  when  he  had  his  hand  on  the  lever  prepared 
to  destroy  the  man  who  had  invaded  his  .home; 
who  had  cast  a  blight  upon  it,  which  remained  after 
all  the  years;  after  he  had  done  all  a  man  could  do 
to  keep  the  home  and  the  woman  too.  The  woman 
had  gone;  the  home  remained  with  his  daughter 
in  it,  and  now  again  there  was  a  fight  for  home 
and  the  woman.  Memory  reproduced  the  picture 
of  the  mother  standing  just  where  the  daughter  now 
stood,  Carmen  quiet  and  well  in  hand,  and  himself 
all  shaken  with  weakness,  and  with  all  power  gone 
out  of  him — even  the  power  which  rage  and  a  mur- 
derous soul  give. 

But  yet  this  was  different.  There  was  no  such 
shame  here  as  had  fallen  on  him  seven  years  ago. 
But  there  was  a  shame  after  its  kind;  and  if  it  were 
not  averted,  there  was  the  end  of  the  home,  of  the 
prestige,  the  pride  and  the  hope  of  "M'sieu*  Jean 
Jacques,  philosophe." 

"What  shall  not  begin  here  at  the  Manor  Cartier?" 
she  asked  with  burning  cheek. 

"The  shame — it  shall  not  begin  here." 

"What  shame,  father?" 

"Of  marriage  with  a  Protestant  and  an  actor." 

"You  will  not  let  me  marry  him?"  she  persisted 
stubbornly. 

Her  words  seemed  to  shake  him  all  to  pieces.  It 
was  as  though  he  was  going  through  the  older 
tragedy  all  over  again.  It  had  possessed  him  ever 

182 


do  not  want  to  go! 


since  the  sight  of  Carmen's  guitar  had  driven  him 
mad  three  hours  ago.  He  swayed  to  and  fro,  even 
as  he  did  when  his  hand  left  the  lever  and  he  let 
the  master-carpenter  go  free.  It  was  indeed  a 
philosopher  under  torture,  a  spirit  rocking  on  its 
anchor.  Just  now  she  had  put  into  words  herself 
what,  even  in  his  fear,  he  had  hoped  had  no  place 
in  her  mind — marriage  with  the  man.  He  did  not 
know  this  daughter  of  his  very  well.  There  was  that 
in  her  which  was  far  beyond  his  ken.  Thousands 
of  miles  away  in  Spain  it  had  origin,  and  the  stream 
of  tendency  came  down  through  long  generations, 
by  courses  unknown  to  him. 

"Marry  him  —  you  want  to  marry  him!"  he 
gasped.  "You,  my  Zoe,  want  to  marry  that  tramp 
of  a  Protestant!" 

Her  eyes  blazed  in  anger.  Tramp — the  man  with 
the  air  of  a  young  Alexander,  with  a  voice  like  the 
low  notes  of  the  guitar  thrown  to  the  flames !  Tramp ! 

"If  I  love  him  I  ought  to  marry  him,"  she  answered 
with  a  kind  of  calmness,  however,  though  all  her 
body  was  quivering.  Suddenly  she  came  close  to  her 
father,  a  great  sympathy  welled  up  in  her  eyes,  and 
her  voice  shook. 

"I  do  not  want  to  leave  you,  father,  and  I  never 
meant  to  do  so.  I  never  thought  of  it  as  possible; 
but  now  it  is  different.  I  want  to  stay  with  you ;  but 
I  want  to  go  with  him  too." 

Presently  as  she  seemed  to  weaken  before  him,  he 
hardened.  "You  can't  have  both,"  he  declared 
with  as  much  sternness  as  was  possible  to  him,  and 
with  a  Norman  wilfulness  which  was  not  strength. 

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The  Money  Master 


"You  shall  not  marry  an  actor  and  a  Protestant. 
You  shall  not  marry  a  man  like  that — never — never — 
never.  If  you  do,  you  will  never  have  a  penny  of 
mine,  and  I  will  never " 

"Oh,  hush — Mother  of  Heaven,  hush!"  she  cried. 
"You  shall  not  put  a  curse  on  me  too." 

"What  curse?"  he  burst  forth,  passion  shaking 
him. 

"You  cursed  my  mother's  baptism.  It  would  be 
a  curse  to  be  told  that  you  would  see  me  no  more, 
that  I  should  be  no  more  part  of  this  home.  There 
has  been  enough  of  that  curse  here.  .  .  .  Ah,  why- 
why —  '  she  added  with  a  sudden  rush  of  indigna- 
tion, "why  did  you  destroy  the  only  thing  I  had  of 
hers?  It  was  all  that  was  left — her  guitar.  I  loved 
it  so." 

All  at  once,  with  a  cry  of  pain,  she  turned  and  ran 
to  the  door  entering  on  the  staircase  which  led  to 
her  room.  In  the  doorway  she  turned. 

"I  can't  help  it.     I  can't  help  it,  father.     I  love 
him — but  I  love  you  too,"  she  cried.     "I  don't  want 
to  go — oh,  I  don't  want  to  go!     Why  do  you — 
her  voice  choked;    she  did  not  finish  the  sentence; 
or  if  she  did,  he  could  not  hear. 

Then  she  opened  the  door  wide,  and  disappeared 
into  the  darkness  of  the  unlighted  stairway,  murmur- 
ing, "Pity — have  pity  on  me,  holy  Mother,  Vierge 
Marie!"  Then  the  door  closed  behind  her  almost 
with  a  bang. 

After  a  moment  of  stupefied  inaction  Jean  Jacques 
hurried  over  and  threw  open  the  door  she  had  closed. 

"Zo£ — little  Zoe,  come  back  and  say  good-n^ht," 
184 


;I  do  not  want  to  go 


he  called.  But  she  did  not  hear,  for,  with  a  burst  of 
crying,  she  had  hurried  into  her  own  room  and  shut 
and  locked  the  door. 

It  was  a  pity,  a  measureless  pity,  as  Mary  the 
Mother  must  have  seen,  if  she  could  see  mortal  life 
at  all,  that  Zoe  did  not  hear  him.  It  might  have 
altered  the  future.  As  it  was,  the  Devil  of  Estrange- 
ment might  well  be  content  with  his  night's  work. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BON   MARCHE 

VILRAY  was  having  its  market  day,  and  every- 
one was  either  going  to  or  coming  from  market, 
or  buying  and  selling  in  the  little  square  by  the  Court 
House.  It  was  the  time  when  the  fruits  were  coming 
in,  when  vegetables  were  in  full  yield,  when  fish 
from  the  Beau  Cheval  were  to  be  had  in  plenty— 
from  mud-cats  and  suckers,  pike  and  perch,  to  rock- 
bass,  sturgeon  and  even  maskinonge.  Also  it  was 
the  time  of  year  when  butter  and  eggs,  chickens  and 
ducks  were  so  cheap  that  it  was  a  humiliation  not  to 
buy.  There  were  other  things  on  sale  also,  not  for 
eating  and  drinking,  but  for  wear  and  household  use 
— from  pots  and  pans  to  rag-carpets  and  table-linen, 
from  woollen  yarn  to  pictures  of  the  Virgin  and  little 
calvaries. 

These  were  side  by  side  with  dried  apples,  bottled 
fruits,  jars  of  maple  syrup,  and  cordials  of  so  gener- 
ous and  penetrating  a  nature  that  the  currant  and 
elderberry  wine  by  which  they  were  flanked  were 
tipple"  for  babes  beside  them.  Indeed,  when  a  man 
wanted  to  forget  himself  quickly  he  drank  one  of 
these  cordials,  in  preference  to  the  white  whisky  so 
commonly  imbibed  in  the  parishes.  But  the  cordials 

1 86 


Bon  marche 

being  expensive,  they  were  chiefly  bought  for  festive 
occasions  like  a  wedding,  a  funeral,  a  confirmation, 
or  the  going  away  of  some  young  man  or  young 
woman  to  the  monastery  or  the  convent  to  forget 
the  world.  Meanwhile,  if  these  spiritual  argonauts 
drank  it,  they  were  likely  to  forget  the  world  on  the 
way  to  their  voluntary  prisons.  It  was  very  seldom 
that  a  man  or  woman  bought  the  cordials  for  ordi- 
nary consumption,  and  when  that  was  done,  it 
would  almost  make  a  parish  talk!  Yet  cordials  of 
nice  brown,  of  delicate  green,  of  an  enticing  yellow 
colour,  were  here  for  sale  at  Vilray  market  on  the 
morning  after  the  painful  scene  at  the  Manor  Cartier 
between  Zo£  and  her  father. 

The  market-place  was  full — fuller  than  it  had  been 
for  many  a  day.  A  great  many  people  were  come  in 
as  much  to  "make  fete"  as  to  buy  and  sell.  It  was 
a  saint's  day,  and  the  bell  of  St.  Monica's  had  been 
ringing  away  cheerfully  twice  that  morning.  To  it 
the  bell  of  the  Court  House  had  made  reply,  for  a 
big  case  was  being  tried  in  the  court.  It  was  a  river- 
driving  and  lumber  case  for  which  many  witnesses 
had  been  called;  and  there  were  all  kinds  of  stray 
people  in  the  place — red-shirted  river-drivers,  a 
black-coated  Methodist  minister  from  Chalfonte, 
clerks  from  lumber-firms,  and  foremen  of  lumber- 
yards; and  among  these  was  one  who  greatly  loved 
such  a  day  as  this  when  he  could  be  free  from  work, 
and  celebrate  himself! 

Other  people  might  celebrate  saints  dead  and  gone, 
and  drink  to  La  Patrie,  and  cry  "Vive  Napolton!" 
or  "Vive  la  Rtpublique!"  or  "Vive  la  Reine!"  though 

187 


The  Money  Master 


this  last  toast  of  the  Empire  was  none  too  common 
—but  he  could  only  drink  with  real  sincerity  to  the 
health  of  Sebastian  Dolores,  which  was  himself. 
Sebastian  Dolores  was  the  pure  anarchist,  the  most 
complete  of  monomaniacs. 

"Here  comes  the  father  of  the  Spanische,"  re- 
marked Mere  Langlois,  who  presided  over  a  heap  of 
household  necessities,  chiefly  dried  fruits,  preserves 
and  pickles,  as  Sebastian  Dolores  appeared  not  far 
away.  "Good-for-nothing  villain!  I  pity  the  poor 
priest  that  confesses  him." 

"Who  is  the  Spanische?"  asked  a  young  woman 
from  her  own  stall  or  stand  very  near,  as  she  in- 
voluntarily arranged  her  hair  and  adjusted  her 
waist-belt;  for  the  rakish-looking  reprobate,  with 
the  air  of  having  been  somewhere,  was  making  to- 
wards them ;  and  she  was  young  enough  to  care  how 
she  looked  when  a  man,  who  took  notice,  was  near. 
Her  own  husband  had  been  a  horse-doctor,  farmer 
and  sportsman  of  a  kind,  and  she  herself  was  now  a 
farmer  of  a  kind;  and  she  had  only  resided  in  the 
parish  during  the  three  years  since  she  had  been 
married  to,  and  buried,  Palass  Poucette. 

Old  Mere  Langlois  looked  at  her  companion  in 
merchanting  irritably,  then  she  remembered  that 
Virginie  Poucette  was  a  stranger,  in  a  way,  and  was 
therefore  deserving  of  pity,  and  she  said  with  com- 
passionate patronage:  "Newcomer  you — I'd  for- 
gotten. Look  you  then,  the  Spanische  was  the  wife 
of  my  third  cousin,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques,  and — 

Virginie  Poucette  nodded,  and  the  slight  frown 
cleared  from  her  low  yet  shapely  forehead.  "Yes, 

1 88 


Bon  march£ 


yes,  of  course  I  know.  I've  heard  enough.  What 
a  fool  she  was,  and  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  so  rich  and 
kind  and  good-looking!  So  this  is  her  father — well, 
Well,  well!" 

Palass  Poucette's  widow  leaned  forward,  and 
looked  intently  at  Sebastian  Dolores,  who  had 
stopped  near  by,  and  facing  a  couple  of  barrels  on 
which  were  exposed  some  bottles  of  cordial  and  home- 
made wine.  He  was  addressing  himself  with  cheer- 
ful words  to  the  dame  that  owned  the  merchandise. 

"I  suppose  you  think  it's  a  pity  Jean  Jacques 
can't  get  a  divorce,"  said  M£re  Langlois  rather  spite- 
fully to  Virginie,  for  she  had  her  sex's  aversion  to 
widows  who  had  had  their  share  of  mankind,  and 
were  afterwards  free  to  have  someone  else's  share  as 
well.  But  suddenly  repenting,  for  Virginie  was  a 
hard-working  widow  who  had  behaved  very  well 
for  an  outsider — having  come  from  Chalfonte  be- 
yond the  Beau  Cheval — she  added:  "But  if  he  was 
a  Protestant  and  could  get  a  divorce,  and  you  did 
marry  him,  you'd  make  him  have  more  sense  than 
he's  got;  for  you've  a  quiet  sensible  way,  and  you've 
worked  hard  since  Palass  Poucette  died." 

"Where  doesn't  he  show  sense,  that  M'sieu'  Jean 
Jacques?"  the  younger  woman  asked. 

"Where?    Why,  with  his  girl— with  Ma'm'selle." 

"Everybody  I  ever  heard  speaks  well  of  Ma'm'- 
selle Zo6,"  returned  the  other  warmly,  for  she  had 
a  very  generous  mind  and  a  truthful,  sentimental 
heart. 

Mere  Langlois  sniffed,  and  put  her  hands  on  her 
hips,  for  she  had  a  daughter  of  her  own;  also  she 

189 


The  Money  Master 


was  a  relation  of  Jean  Jacques,  and  therefore  resented 
in  one  way  the  difference  in  their  social  position, 
while  yet  she  plumed  herself  on  being  kin. 

"Then  you'll  learn  something  now  you  never  knew 
before,"  she  said.  "She's  been  carrying  on — there's 
no  other  word  for  it — with  an  actor  fellow 

"Yes,  yes,  I  did  hear  about  him — a  Protestant  and 
an  Englishman." 

"Well,  then,  why  do  you  pretend  youMon't  know 
— only  to  hear  me  talk,  is  it?  Take  my  word,  I'd 
teach  cousin  Zo6  a  lesson  with  all  her  education  and 
her  two  years  at  the  convent.  Wasn't  it  enough 
that  her  mother  should  spoil  everything  for  Jean 
Jacques,  and  make  the  Manor  Cartier  a  place  to 
point  the  finger  at,  without  her  bringing  disgrace  on 
the  parish  too!  What  happened  last  night — didn't 
I  hear  this  morning  before  I  had  my  breakfast! 
Didn't  I- 

She  then  proceeded  to  describe  the  scene  in  which 
Jean  Jacques  had  thrown  the  wrecked  guitar  of  his 
vanished  spouse  into  the  fire.  Before  she  had  fin- 
ished, however,  something  occurred  which  swept 
them  into  another  act  of  the  famous  history  of  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille  and  his  house. 

She  had  arrived  at  the  point  where  Zo£  had  cried 
aloud  in  pain  at  her  father's  incendiary  act,  when 
there  was  a  great  stir  at  the  Court  House  door  which 
opened  on  the  market  place,  and  vagrant  cheers 
arose.  These  were  presently  followed  by  a  more 
disciplined  fusillade;  which  presently,  in  turn,  was 
met  by  hisses  and  some  raucous  cries  of  resentment. 
These  increased  as  a  man  appeared  on  the  steps  of 

190 


Bon  marche 

the  Court  House,  looked  round  for  a  moment  in  a 
dazed  kind  of  way,  then  seeing  some  friends  below 
who  were1  swarming  towards  him,  gave  a  ribald  cry, 
and  scrambled  down  the  steps  towards  them. 

He  was  the  prisoner  whose  release  had  suddenly 
been  secured  by  a  piece  of  evidence  which  had  come 
as  a  thunder-clap  on  judge  and  jury.  Immediately 
after  giving  this  remarkable  evidence  the  witness — • 
Sebastian  Dolores — had  left  the  court-room.  He 
was  now  engaged  in  buying  cordials  in  the  market- 
place—  in  buying  and  drinking  them;  for  he  had 
pulled  the  cork  out  of  a  bottle  filled  with  a  rich 
yellow  liquid,  and  had  drained  half  the  bottle  at  a 
gulp.  Presently  he  offered  the  remainder  to  a 
passing  carter,  who  made  a  gesture  of  contempt 
and  passed  on,  for,  to  him,  white  whisky  was  the 
only  drink  worth  while.  Besides,  he  disliked  Sebas- 
tian Dolores.  Then,  with  a  flourish,  the  Spaniard 
tendered  the  bottle  to  Madame  Langlois  and  Palass 
Poucette's  widow,  at  whose  corner  of  merchandise 
he  had  now  arrived. 

Surely  there  never  was  a  more  benign  villain  and 
perjurer  in  the  world  than  Sebastian  Dolores!  His 
evidence,  given  a  half-hour  before,  with  every  sign 
of  truthfulness,  was  false.  The  man — Rocque  Vales- 
cure — for  whom  he  gave  it  was  no  friend  of  his;  but 
he  owned  a  tavern  called  "The  Red  Eagle,"  a  few 
miles  from  the  works  where  the  Spaniard  was  em- 
ployed; also  Rocque  Valescure's  wife  set  a  good  ta- 
ble, and  Sebastian  Dolores  was  a  very  liberal  feeder; 
when  he  was  not  hungry  he  was  always  thirsty. 
The  appeasement  of  hunger  and  thirst  was  now 

191 


The  Money  Master 


become  a  problem  to  him,  for  his  employers  at 
Beauharnais  had  given  him  a  month's  notice  because 
of  certain  irregularities  which  had  come  to  their 
knowledge.  Like  a  wise  man  Sebastian  Dolores 
had  said  nothing  about  this  abroad,  but  had  enlarged 
his  credit  in  every  direction,  and  had  then  planned 
this  piece  of  friendly  perjury  for  Rocque  Valescure, 
who  was  now  descending  the  steps  of  the  Court 
House  to  the  arms  of  his  friends  and  amid  the  ex- 
ecrations of  his  foes.  What  the  alleged  crime  was 
does  not  matter.  It  has  no  vital  significance  in 
the  history  of  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  though  it  has 
its  place  as  a  swivel  on  which  the  future  swung. 

Sebastian  Dolores  had  saved  Rocque  Valescure 
from  at  least  three  years  in  jail,  and  possibly  a  very 
heavy  fine  as  well;  and  this  service  must  have  its 
due  reward.  Something  for  nothing  was  not  the 
motto  of  Sebastian  Dolores;  and  he  confidently 
looked  forward  to  having  a  home  at  "The  Red 
Eagle"  and  a  banker  in  its  landlord.  He  was  no 
longer  certain  that  he  could  rely  on  help  from  Jean 
Jacques,  to  whom  he  already  owed  so  much.  That 
was  why  he  wanted  to  make  Rocque  Valescure  his 
debtor.  It  was  not  his  way  to  perjure  his  soul  for 
nothing.  He  had  done  so  in  Spain — yet  not  for 
nothing  either.  He  had  saved  his  head,  which  was 
now  doing  useful  work  for  himself  and  for  a  needy 
fellow-creature.  No  one  could  doubt  that  he  had 
helped  a  neighbour  in  great  need,  and  had  done  it 
at  some  expense  to  his  own  nerve  and  brain.  None 
but  an  expert  could  have  lied  as  he  had  done  in  the 
witness-box.  Also  he  had  upheld  his  lies  with  a 

192 


Bon  marche 


striking  narrative  of  circumstantiality.  He  made 
things  fit  in  "like  mortised  blocks"  as  the  Clerk  of 
the  Court  said  to  Judge  Carcasson,  when  they  dis- 
cussed the  infamy  afterwards  with  clear  conviction 
that  it  was  perjury  of  a  shameless  kind ;  for  one  who 
would  perjure  himself  to  save  a  man  from  jail, 
would  also  swear  a  man  into  the  gallows-rope.  But 
Judge  Carcasson  had  not  been  able  to  charge  the 
jury  in  that  sense,  for  there  was  no  effective  evidence 
to  rebut  the  untruthful  attestation  of  the  Spaniard. 
It  had  to  be  taken  for  what  it  was  worth,  since  the 
prosecuting  attorney  could  not  shake  it;  and  yet  to 
the  Court  itself  it  was  manifestly  false  witness. 

Sebastian  Dolores  was  too  wise  to  throw  himself 
into  the  arms  of  his  released  tavern-keeper  here 
immediately  after  the  trial,  or  to  allow  Rocque 
Valescure  a  like  indiscretion  and  luxury;  for  there 
was  a  strong  law  against  perjury,  and  right  well 
Sebastian  Dolores  knew  that  old  Judge  Carcasson 
would  have  little  mercy  on  him,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  he  was  the  grandfather  of  Zoe  Barbille.  The 
Judge  would  probably  think  that  safe  custody  for 
his  wayward  character  would  be  the  kindest  thing 
he  could  do  for  Zoe. 

Therefore  it  was  that  Sebastian  Dolores  paid  no 
attention  to  the  progress  of  the  released  landlord  of 
"The  Red  Eagle,"  though,  by  a  glance  out  of  the 
corner  of  his  eyes,  he  made  sure  that  the  footsteps 
of  liberated  guilt  were  marching  at  a  tangent  from 
where  he  was — even  to  the  nearest  tavern. 

It  was  enough  for  Dolores  that  he  should  watch 
the  result  of  his  good  deed  from  the  isolated  area 
13  J93 


The  Money  Master 


where  he  now  was,  in  the  company  of  two  virtuous 
representatives  of  domesticity.  His  time  with  lib- 
erated guilt  would  come!  He  chuckled  to  think  how 
he  had  provided  himself  with  a  refuge  against  his 
hour  of  trouble.  That  very  day  he  had  left  his 
employment,  meaning  to  return  no  more,  securing 
his  full  wages  through  having  suddenly  become  re- 
sentful and  troublesome,  neglectful — and  imperative. 
To  avoid  further  unpleasantness  the  firm  had  paid 
him  all  his  wages;  and  he  had  straightway  come  to 
Vilray  to  earn  his  bed  and  board  by  other  means 
than  through  a  pen,  a  ledger  and  a  gift  for  figures. 
It  would  not  be  a  permanent  security  against  the 
future,  but  it  would  suffice  for  the  moment.  It 
was  a  rest-place  on  the  road.  If  the  worst  came  to 
the  worst,  there  was  his  grand-daughter  and  his 
dear  son-in-law  whom  he  so  seldom  saw — blood  was 
thicker  than  water,  and  he  would  see  to  it  that  it 
was  not  thinned  by  neglect. 

Meanwhile  he  ogled  Palass  Poucette's  widow 
with  one  eye,  and  talked  softly  with  his  tongue  to 
Mere  Langlois,  as  he  importuned  Madame  to, 
"Sip  the  good  cordial  in  the  name  of  charity  to  all 
and  malice  towards  none." 

"You're  a  bad  man — you,  and  I  want  none  of 
your  cordials,"  was  Mere  Langlois's  response. 
"Malice  towards  none,  indeed!  If  you  and  the 
Devil  started  business  in  the  same  street,  you'd 
make  him  close  up  shop  in  a  year.  I've  got  your 
measure,  for  sure;  I  have  you  certain  as  an  arm  and 
a  pair  of  stirrups." 

"I  go  about  doing  good — only  good,"  returned 

194 


Bon  marche 


the  old  sinner  with  a  leer  at  the  young  widow,  whose 
fingers  he  managed  to  press  unseen,  as  he  swung  the 
little  bottle  of  cordial  before  the  eyes  of  Mere 
Langlois.  He  was  not  wholly  surprised  when 
Palass  Poucette's  widow  did  not  show  abrupt  dis- 
pleasure at  his  bold  familiarity. 

A  wild  thought  flashed  into  his  mind.  Might 
there  not  be  another  refuge  here — here  in  Palass 
Poucette's  widow!  He  was  sixty- three,  it  was  true, 
and  she  was  only  thirty-two;  but  for  her  to  be  an 
old  man's  darling  who  had  no  doubt  been  a  young 
man's  slave,  that  would  surely  have  its  weight  with 
her.  Also  she  owned  the  farm  where  she  lived; 
and  she  was  pleasant  pasturage — that  was  the  phrase 
he  used  in  his  own  mind,  even  as  his  eye  swept  from 
Mere  Langlois  to  hers  in  swift,  hungry  inquiry. 

He  seemed  in  earnest  when  he  spoke — but  that 
was  his  way;  it  had  done  him  service  often.  "I 
do  good  whenever  it  comes  my  way  to  do  it,"  he 
continued.  "I  left  my  work  this  morning" — he 
lied  of  course — "and  hired  a  buggy  to  bring  me 
over  here,  all  at  my  own  cost,  to  save  a  fellow-man. 
There  in  the  Court  House  he  was  sure  of  prison,  with 
a  wife  and  three  small  children  weeping  in  'The 
Red  Eagle';  and  there  I  come  at  great  expense  and 
trouble  to  tell  the  truth — before  all  to  tell  the  truth — 
and  save  him  and  set  him  free.  Yonder  he  is  in 
the  tavern,  the  work  of  my  hands,  a  gift  to  the 
world  from  an  honest  man  with  a  good  heart  and  a 
sense  of  justice.  But  for  me  there  would  be  a 
wife  and  three  children  in  the  bondage  of  shame, 
sorrow,  poverty  and  misery" — his  eyes  again 

195 


The  Money  Master 


ravished  the  brown  eyes  of  Palass  Poucette's  widow 
— "and  here  again  I  drink  to  my  own  health  and  to 
that  of  all  good  people — with  charity  to  all  and  malice 
towards  none!" 

The  little  bottle  of  golden  cordial  was  raised  to- 
wards Mere  Langlois.  The  fingers  of  one  hand, 
however,  were  again  seeking  those  of  the  comely 
young  widow  who  was  half  behind  him,  when  he 
felt  them  caught  spasmodically  away.  Before  he 
had  time  to  turn  round  he  heard  a  voice,  saying: 
"I  should  have  thought  that,  'With  malice  to  all 
and  charity  towards  none,'  was  your  motto,  Dolores." 

He  knew  that  voice  well  enough.  He  had  always 
had  a  lurking  fear  that  he  would  hear  it  say  some- 
thing devastating  to  him,  from  the  great  chair  where 
its  owner  sat  and  dispensed  what  justice  a  jury 
would  permit  him  to  do.  That  devastating  some- 
thing would  be  agony  to  one  who  loved  liberty  and 
freedom — had  not  that  ever  been  his  watchword, 
liberty  and  freedom  to  do  what  he  pleased  in  the 
world  and  with  the  world?  Yes,  he  well  knew 
Judge  Carcasson's  voice.  He  would  have  recognized 
it  in  the  dark — or  under  the  black  cap. 

"M'sieu'  le  juge!"  he  said,  even  before  he  turned 
round  and  saw  the  faces  of  the  tiny  Judge  and  his 
Clerk  of  the  Court.  There  was  a  kind  of  quivering 
about  his  mouth,  and  a  startled  look  in  his  eyes  as 
he  faced  the  two.  But  there  was  the  widow  of 
Palass  Poucette,  and,  if  he  was  to  pursue  and  fre- 
quent her,  something  must  be  done  to  keep  him 
decently  figured  in  her  eye  and  mind. 

"It  cost  me  three  dollars  to  come  here  and  save 

196 


Bon  marche 


a  man  from  jail  to-day,  m'sieu'  le  juge,"  he  added 
firmly. 

The  Judge  pressed  the  point  of  his  cane  against 
the  stomach  of  the  hypocrite  and  perjurer.  "If  the 
Devil  and  you  meet,  he  will  take  off  his  hat  to  you, 
my  escaped  anarchist" — Dolores  started  almost  vio- 
lently now  —  "for  you  can  teach  him  much,  and 
Ananias  was  the  merest  aboriginal  to  you.  But  we'll 
get  you — we'll  get  you,  Dolores.  You  saved  that 
guilty  fellow  by  a  careful  and  remarkable  perjury  to- 
day. In  a  long  experience  I  have  never  seen  a 
better  performance — have  you,  monsieur?"  he  added 
to  M.  Fille. 

"But  once,"  was  the  pointed  and  deliberate  reply. 

"Ah,  when  was  that?"  asked  Judge  Carcasson, 
interested. 

"The  year  monsieur  le  juge  was  ill,  and  Judge 
Blaquiere  took  your  place.  It  was  in  Vilray  at  the 
Court  House  here." 

"Ah — ah,  and  who  was  the  phenomenon — the 
perfect  liar?"  asked  the  Judge  with  the  eagerness 
of  the  expert. 

"His  name  was  Sebastian  Dolores,"  meditatively 
replied  M.  Fille.  "It  was  even  a  finer  performance 
than  that  of  to-day." 

The  Judge  gave  a  little  grunt  of  surprise.  "Twice, 
eh?"  he  asked.  "Yet  this  was  good  enough  to 
break  any  record,"  he  added.  He  fastened  the 
young  widow's  eyes.  "Madame,  you  are  young, 
and  you  have  an  eye  of  intelligence.  Be  sure  of 
this:  you  can  protect  yourself  against  almost  any- 
one except  a  liar — eh,  madame?"  he  added  to  MeTe 

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The  Money  Master 


Langlois.     "I  am  sure  your  experience  of  life  and 
your  good  sense 

"My  good  sense  would  make  me  think  purgatory 
was  hell  if  I  saw  him" — she  nodded  savagely  at 
Dolores  as  she  said  it,  for  she  had  seen  that  last  effort 
of  his  to  take  the  fingers  of  Palass  Poucette's  widow 
— "if  I  saw  him  there,  m'sieu'  le  juge." 

"We'll  have  you  yet — we'll  have  you  yet,  Do- 
lores," said  the  Judge,  as  the  Spaniard  prepared  to 
move  on.  But,  as  Dolores  went,  he  again  caught  the 
eyes  of  the  young  widow. 

This  made  him  suddenly  bold.  '"Thou  shalt  not 
bear  false  witness  against  thy  neighbour,' — that  is 
the  commandment,  is  it  not,  m'sieu'  le  juge?  You 
are  doing  against  me  what  I  didn't  do  in  Court  to- 
day. I  saved  a  man  from  your  malice." 

The  crook  of  the  Judge's  cane  caught  the  Span- 
iard's arm,  and  held  him  gently. 

"You're  possessed  of  a  devil,  Dolores,"  he  said, 
"and  I  hope  I'll  never  have  to  administer  justice 
in  your  case.  I  might  be  more  man  than  judge. 
But  you  will  come  to  no  good  end.  You  will  cer- 
tainly  " 

He  got  no  further,  for  the  attention  of  all  was 
suddenly  arrested  by  a  wagon  driving  furiously 
round  the  corner  of  the  Court  House.  It  was  a  red 
wagon.  In  it  was  Jean  Jacques  Barbille. 

His  face  was  white  and  set;  his  head  was  thrust 
forward,  as  though  looking  at  something  far  ahead 
of  him ;  the  pony  stallions  he  was  driving  were  white 
with  sweat,  and  he  had  an  air  of  tragic  helplessness 
and  panic. 

198 


Bon  marche 


Suddenly  a  child  ran  across  the  roadway  in  front 
of  the  ponies,  and  the  wild  cry  of  the  mother  roused 
Jean  Jacques  out  of  his  agonized  trance.  He  sprang 
to  his  feet,  wrenching  the  horses  backward  and  aside 
with  deftness  and  presence  of  mind.  The  margin  of 
safety  was  not  more  than  a  foot,  but  the  child  was 
saved. 

The  philosopher  of  the  Manor  Cartier  seemed  to 
come  out  of  a  dream  as  men  and  women  applauded, 
and  cries  arose  of  "Bravo,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques!" 

At  any  other  time  this  would  have  made  Jean 
Jacques  nod  and  smile,  or  wave  a  hand,  or  exclaim 
in  good  fellowship.  Now,  however,  his  eyes  were 
full  of  trouble,  and  the  glassiness  of  the  semi-trance 
leaving  them,  they  shifted  restlessly  here  and  there. 
Suddenly  they  fastened  on  the  little  group  of  which 
Judge  Carcasson  was  the  centre.  He  had  stopped 
his  horses  almost  beside  them, 

"Ah!"  he  said,  "ah!"  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the 
Judge.  "Ah!"  he  again  exclaimed,  as  the  glance 
ran  from  the  Judge  to  Sebastian  Dolores.  "Ah, 
mercy  of  God!"  he  added,  in  a  voice  which  had  both 
a  low  note  and  a  high  note — deep  misery  and  shrill 
protest  in  one.  Then  he  seemed  to  choke,  and  words 
would  not  come,  but  he  kept  looking,  looking  at 
Sebastian  Dolores,  as  though  fascinated  and  tortured 
by  the  sight  of  him. 

"What  is  it,  Jean  Jacques?"  asked  the  little 
Clerk  of  the  Court  gently,  coming  forward  and  laying 
a  hand  on  the  streaming  flank  of  a  spent  and  trem- 
bling pony. 

As  though  he  could  not  withdraw  his  gaze  from 

199 


The  Money  Master 


Sebastian  Dolores,  Jean  Jacques  did  not  look  at  M. 
Fille;  but  he  thrust  out  the  long  whip  he  carried 
towards  the  father  of  his  vanished  Carmen  and  his 
Zo6's  grandfather,  and  with  the  deliberation  of  one 
to  whom  speaking  was  like  the  laceration  of  a  nerve 
he  said:  "Zoe's  run  away — gone — gone!" 

At  that  moment  Louis  Charron,  his  cousin,  at 
whose  house  Gerard  Fynes  had  lodged,  came  down 
the  street  galloping  his  horse.  Seeing  the  red  wagon, 
he  made  for  it,  and  drew  rein. 

"It's  no  good,  Jean  Jacques,"  he  called.  "They're 
married  and  gone  to  Montreal — married  right  under 
our  noses  by  the  Protestant  minister  at  Terrebasse 
Junction.  I've  got  the  telegram  here  from  the  sta- 
tion-master at  Terrebasse.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  villain  to 
steal  away  like  that — only  a  child — from  her  own 
father!  Here  it  is — the  telegram.  But  believe  me, 
an  actor,  a  Protestant  and  a  foreigner — what  a 
devil's  mess!" 

He  waved  the  telegram  towards  Jean  Jacques. 

"Did  he  owe  you  anything,  Louis?"  asked  old 
Mere  Langlois,  whose  practical  mind  was  alert  to 
find  the  material  status  of  things. 

"Not  a  sou.  Well,  but  he  was  honest,  I'll  say  that 
for  the  rogue  and  seducer." 

"Seducer — ah,  God  choke  you  with  your  own 
tongue!"  cried  Jean  Jacques,  turning  on  Louis 
Charron  with  a  savage  jerk  of  the  whip  he  held. 
"She  is  as  pure— 

"It  is  no  marriage,  of  course!"  squeaked  a  voice 
from  the  crowd. 

"It  '11  be  all  right  among  the  English,  won't  it, 
200 


Bon  march6 

monsieur  le  juge?"  asked  the  gentle  widow  of  Palass 
Poucette,  whom  the  scene  seemed  to  rouse  out  of  her 
natural  shyness. 

"Most  sure,  madame,  most  sure,"  answered  the 
Judge.  "It  will  be  all  right  among  the  English,  and 
it  is  all  right  among  the  French  so  far  as  the  law  is 
concerned.  As  for  the  Church,  that  is  another  mat- 
ter. But — but  see,"  he  added,  addressing  Louis 
Charron,  "does  the  station-master  say  what  place 
they  took  tickets  for?" 

"Montreal  and  Winnipeg,"  was  the  reply.  "Here 
it  is  in  the  telegram.  Winnipeg — that's  as  English 
as  London." 

"Winnipeg — a  thousand  miles!"  moaned  Jean 
Jacques. 

With  the  finality  which  the  tickets  for  Winnipeg 
signified,  the  shrill  panic  emotion  seemed  to  pass 
from  him.  In  its  numbing,  deadening  force  it  was 
like  a  sentence  on  a  prisoner. 

As  many  eyes  were  on  Sebastian  Dolores  as  on  Jean 
Jacques.  "It's  the  bad  blood  that  was  in  her," 
said  a  farmer  with  a  significant  gesture  towards 
Sebastian  Dolores. 

"A  little  bad  blood  let  out  would  be  a  good  thing," 
remarked  a  truculent  river-driver,  who  had  given 
evidence  directly  contrary  to  that  given  by  Sebastian 
Dolores  in  the  trial  just  concluded.  There  was  a 
savage  look  in  his  eye. 

Sebastian  Dolores  heard,  and  he  was  not  the  man 
to  invite  trouble.  He  could  do  no  good  where  he 
was,  and  he  turned  to  leave  the  market-place;  but 
in  doing  so  he  sought  the  eye  of  Virginie  Poucette, 

201 


The  Money  Master 


who,  however,  kept  her  face  at  an  angle  from  him, 
as  she  saw  Mere  Langlois  sharply  watching  her. 

"Grandfather,  mother  and  daughter,  all  of  a 
piece!"  said  a  spiteful  woman,  as  Sebastian  Dolores 
passed  her.  The  look  he  gave  her  was  not  the  same 
as  that  he  had  given  to  Palass  Poucette's  widow.  If 
it  had  been  given  by  a  Spanish  inquisitor  to  a  heretic, 
little  hope  would  have  remained  in  the  heretic's 
heart.  Yet  there  was  a  sad  patient  look  on  his  face, 
as  though  he  was  a  martyr.  He  had  no  wish  to  be 
a  martyr;  but  he  had  a  feeling  that  for  want  of 
other  means  of  expressing  their  sympathy  with  Jean 
Jacques,  these  rough  people  might  tar  and  feather 
him  at  least ;  though  it  was  only  his  misfortune  that 
those  sprung  from  his  loins  had  such  adventurous 
spirits ! 

Sebastian  Dolores  was  not  without  a  real  instinct 
regarding  things.  What  was  in  his  mind  was  also 
passing  through  that  of  the  river-driver  and  a  few 
of  his  friends,  and  they  carefully  watched  the  route 
he  was  taking. 

Jean  Jacques  prepared  to  depart.  He  had  ever 
loved  to  be  the  centre  of  a  picture,  but  here  was  a 
time  when  to  be  in  the  centre  was  torture.  Eyes  of 
morbid  curiosity  were  looking  at  the  open  wounds  of 
his  heart — ragged  wounds  made  by  the  shrapnel  of 
tragedy  and  treachery,  not  the  clean  wounds  got 
in  a  fair  fight,  easily  healed.  For  the  moment  at 
least  the  little  egoist  was  a  mere  suffering  soul — an 
epitome  of  shame,  misery  and  disappointment.  He 
must  straightway  flee  the  place  where  he  was  tied 
to  the  stake  of  public  curiosity  and  scorn.  He  drew 

202 


Bon  marche 

the  reins  tighter,  and  the  horses  straightened  to 
depart.  Then  it  was  that  old  Judge  Carcasson  laid 
a  hand  on  his  knee. 

"Come,  come,"  he  said  to  the  dejected  and  broken 
little  man,  "where  is  your  philosophy?" 

Jean  Jacques  looked  at  the  Judge,  as  though  with 
a  new-born  suspicion  that  henceforth  the  world 
would  laugh  at  him,  and  that  Judge  Carcasson  was 
setting  the  fashion ;  but  seeing  a  pitying  moisture  in 
the  other's  eyes,  he  drew  himself  up,  set  his  jaw,  and 
calling  on  all  the  forces  at  his  command,  he  said: 

"Moi — je  suis  philosophe!" 

His  voice  frayed  a  little  on  the  last  word,  but  his 
head  was  up  now.  The  Clerk  of  the  Court  would 
have  asked  to  accompany  him  to  the  Manor  Cartier, 
but  he  was  not  sure  that  Jean  Jacques  would  like  it. 
He  had  a  feeling  that  Jean  Jacques  would  wish  to 
have  his  dark  hour  alone.  So  he  remained  silent, 
and  Jean  Jacques  touched  his  horses  with  the  whip. 
After  starting,  however,  and  having  been  followed 
for  a  hundred  yards  or  so  by  the  pitying  murmurs 
and  a  few  I-told-you-so's  and  revilings  for  having 
married  as  he  did,  Jean  Jacques  stopped  the  ponies. 
Standing  up  in  the  red  wagon  he  looked  round  for 
someone  whom,  for  a  moment,  he  did  not  see  in  the 
slowly  shifting  crowd. 

Philosophy  was  all  very  well,  and  he  had  courage- 
ously given  his  allegiance  to  it,  or  a  formula  of  it,  a 
moment  before;  but  there  was  something  deeper 
and  rarer  still  in  the  little  man's  soul.  His  heart 
hungered  for  the  two  women  who  had  been  the  joy 
and  pride  of  his  life,  even  when  he  had  been  lost  in 

203 


The  Money  Master 


the  business  of  the  material  world.  They  were  more 
to  him  than  he  had  ever  known;  they  were  parts  of 
himself  which  had  slowly  developed,  as  the  features 
and  characteristics  of  ancestors  gradually  emerge 
and  are  emphasized  in  a  descendant  as  his  years 
increase.  Carmen  and  Zo6  were  more  a  part  of  him- 
self now  than  they  had  ever  been. 

They  were  gone,  the  living  spirits  of  his  home. 
Anything  that  reminded  him  of  them,  despite  the 
pain  of  the  reminder,  was  dear  to  him.  Love  was 
greater  than  the  vengeful  desire  of  injured  human 
nature.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  people,  over 
the  market.  At  last  he  saw  what  he  was  looking  for. 
He  called.  A  man  turned.  Jean  Jacques  beckoned 
to  him.  He  came  eagerly,  he  hurried  to  the  red 
wagon. 

"Come  home  with  me,"  said  Jean  Jacques. 

The  words  were  addressed  to  Sebastian  Dolores, 
who  said  to  himself  that  this  was  a  refuge  surer  than 
"The  Red  Eagle,"  or  the  home  of  the  widow  Pou- 
cette.  He  climbed  in  beside  Jean  Jacques  with  a 
sigh  of  content. 

"Ah,  but  that — but  that  is  the  end  of  our  philos- 
opher," said  Judge  Carcasson  sadly  to  the  Clerk  of 
the  Court,  as  with  amazement  he  saw  this  catas- 
trophe. 

"Alas!  if  I  had  only  asked  to  go  with  him,  as  I 
wished  to  do!"  responded  M.  Fille.  "There,  but 
a  minute  ago,  it  was  in  my  mind,"  he  added  with  a 
look  of  pain. 

"You  missed  your  chance,  falterer,"  said  the 
Judge  severely.  "If  you  have  a  good  thought,  act 

204 


Bon  marche 


on  it — that  is  the  golden  rule.  You  missed  your 
chance.  It  will  never  come  again.  He  has  taken 
the  wrong  turning,  our  unhappy  Jean  Jacques." 

"Monsieur — oh,  monsieur,  do  not  shut  the  door 
in  the  face  of  God  like  that!"  said  the  shocked  little 
master  of  the  law.  "Those  two  together — it  may  be 
only  for  a  moment." 

"Ah,  no,  my  little  owl,  Jean  Jacques  will  wind 
the  boa-constrictor  round  his  neck  like  a  collar, 
all  for  love  of  those  he  has  lost,"  answered  the  Judge 
with  emotion;  and  he  caught  M.  Fille's  arm  in  the 
companionship  of  sorrow. 

In  silence  these  two  watched  the  red  wagon  till  it 
was  out  of  sight. 


EPOCH    THE    FOURTH 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MISFORTUNES   COME   NOT   SINGLY 

JUDGE  CARCASSON  was  right.  For  a  year 
*J  after  Zoe's  flight  Jean  Jacques  wrapped  Sebas- 
tian Dolores  round  his  neck  like  a  collar,  and  it 
choked  him  like  a  boa-constrictor.  But  not  Se- 
bastian Dolores  alone  did  that.  When  things  begin 
to  go  wrong  in  the  life  of  a  man  whose  hands  have 
held  too  many  things,  the  disorder  flutters  through 
all  the  radii  of  his  affairs,  and  presently  they  rattle 
away  from  the  hub  of  his  control. 

So  it  was  with  Jean  Jacques.  To  take  his  repro- 
bate father-in-law  to  his  lonely  home  would  have 
brought  him  trouble  in  any  case;  but  as  things  were, 
the  Spaniard  became  only  the  last  straw  which 
broke  his  camel's  back.  And  what  a  burden  his 
camel  carried  —  flour-mill,  saw-mill,  ash-factory, 
farms,  a  general  store,  lime-kilns,  agency  for  light- 
ning-rods and  insurance,  cattle-dealing,  the  project 
for  the  new  cheese-factory,  and  money-lending! 

Money-lending?  It  seemed  strange  that  Jean 
Jacques  should  be  able  to  lend  money,  since  he  him- 
self had  to  borrow,  and  mortgage  also,  from  time  to 
time.  When  things  began  to  go  really  wrong  with 
him  financially,  he  mortgaged  his  farms,  his  flour- 
14  209 


The  Money  Master 


mill,  and  saw-mill,  and  then  lent  money  on  other 
mortgages.  This  he  did  because  he  had  always  lent 
money,  and  it  was  a  habit  so  associated  with  his 
prestige,  that  he  tied  himself  up  in  borrowing  and 
lending  and  counter-mortgaging  till,  as  the  saying 
is,  "a  Philadelphia  lawyer"  could  not  have  un- 
ravelled his  affairs  without  having  been  born  again 
in  the  law.  That  he  was  able  to  manipulate  his 
tangled  affairs,  while  keeping  the  confidence  of  those 
from  whom  he  borrowed,  and  the  admiration  of 
those  to  whom  he  lent,  was  evidence  of  his  capacity. 
"Genius  of  a  kind"  was  what  his  biggest  creditor 
called  it  later. 

After  a  personal  visit  to  St.  Saviour's,  this  biggest 
creditor  and  financial  potentate — M.  Mornay — said 
that  if  Jean  Jacques  had  been  started  right  and 
trained  right,  he  would  have  been  a  "general  in  the 
financial  field,  winning  big  battles." 

M.  Mornay  chanced  to  be  a  friend  of  Judge  Car- 
casson,  and  when  he  visited  Vilray  he  remembered 
that  the  Judge  had  spoken  often  of  his  humble  but 
learned  friend,  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  and  of  his 
sister.  So  M.  Mornay  made  his  way  from  the  office 
of  the  firm  of  avocats  whom  he  had  instructed  in  his 
affairs  with  Jean  Jacques,  to  that  of  M.  Fille.  Here 
he  was  soon  engaged  in  comment  on  the  master- 
miller  and  philosopher. 

"He  has  had  much  trouble,  and  no  doubt  his 
affairs  have  suffered,"  remarked  M.  Fille  cautiously, 
when  the  ice  had  been  broken  and  the  Big  Financier 
had  referred  casually  to  the  difficulties  among  which 
Jean  Jacques  was  trying  to  maintain  equilibrium; 

2IO 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


"but  he  is  a  man  who  can  do  things  too  hard  for 
other  men." 

The  Big  Financier  lighted  another  cigar  and  blew 
away  several  clouds  of  smoke  before  he  said  in  reply, 
"Yes,  I  know  he  has  had  family  trouble  again,  but 
that  is  a  year  ago,  and  he  has  had  a  chance  to  get 
another  grip  of  things." 

"He  did  not  sit  down  and  mope,"  explained  M. 
Fille.  "He  was  at  work  the  next  day  after  his 
daughter's  flight  just  the  same  as  before.  He  is  a 
man  of  great  courage.  Misfortune  does  not  paralyse 
him." 

M.  Mornay's  speech  was  of  a  kind  which  came  in 
spurts,  with  pauses  of  thought  between,  and  the 
pause  now  was  longer  than  usual. 

"Paralysis  —  certainly  not,"  he  said  at  last. 
"Physical  activity  is  one  of  the  manifestations  of 
mental,  moral  and  even  physical  shock  and  injury. 
I've  seen  a  man  with  a  bullet  in  him  run  a  half- 
mile — anywhere;  I've  seen  a  man  ripped  up  by  a 
crosscut-saw  hold  himself  together,  and  walk — any- 
where— till  he  dropped.  Physical  and  nervous  activ- 
ity is  one  of  the  forms  which  shattered  force  takes. 
I  expect  that  your  'M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques'  has  been 
busier  this  last  year  than  ever  before  in  his  life. 
He'd  have  to  be;  for  a  man  who  has  as  many  irons 
in  the  fire  as  he  has,  must  keep  running  from  bellows 
to  bellows  when  misfortune  starts  to  damp  him 
down." 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  sighed.  He  realized  the 
significance  of  what  his  visitor  was  saying.  Ever 
since  Zoe  had  gone,  Jean  Jacques  had  been  for  ever 

an 


The  Money  Master 


on  the  move,  for  ever  making  hay  on  which  the  sun 
did  not  shine.  Jean  Jacques'  face  these  days  was 
lined  and  changeful.  It  looked  unstable  and  tired— 
as  though  disturbing  forces  were  working  up  to  the 
surface  out  of  control.  The  brown  eyes,  too,  were 
far  more  restless  than  they  had  ever  been  since  the 
Antoine  was  wrecked,  and  their  owner  returned 
with  Carmen  to  the  Manor  Cartier.  But  the  new 
restlessness  of  the  eyes  was  different  from  the  old. 
That  was  a  mobility  impelled  by  an  active,  in- 
quisitive soul,  trying  to  observe  what  was  going  on 
in  the  world,  and  to  make  sure  that  its  possessor 
was  being  seen  by  the  world.  This  activity  was  that 
of  a  mind  essentially  concerned  to  find  how  many 
ways  it  could  see  for  escape  from  a  maze  of  things; 
while  his  vanity  was  taking  new  forms.  It  was 
always  anxious  to  discover  if  the  world  was  trying 
to  know  how  he  was  taking  the  blows  of  fate  and 
fortune.  He  had  been  determined  that,  whatever 
came,  it  should  not  see  him  paralysed  or  broken. 

As  M.  Fille  only  nodded  his  head  in  sorrowful 
assent,  the  Big  Financier  became  more  explicit. 
He  was  determined  to  lose  nothing  by  Jean  Jacques', 
and  he  was  prepared  to  take  instant  action  when  it 
was  required ;  but  he  was  also  interested  in  the  man 
who  might  have  done  really  powerful  things  in  the 
world,  had  he  gone  about  them  in  the  right  way. 

"M.  Barbille  has  had  some  lawsuits  this  year,  is 
it  not  so  ?"  he  asked. 

"Two  of  importance,  monsieur,  and  one  is  not  yet 
decided,"  answered  M.  Fille. 

"He  lost  those  suits  of  importance?'" 

212 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


"That  is  so,  monsieur." 

"And  they  cost  him  six  thousand  dollars — and 
over?"  The  Big  Financier  seemed  to  be  pressing 
towards  a  point. 

"Something  over  that  amount,  monsieur." 

"And  he  may  lose  the  suit  now  before  the  Courts?" 

"Who  can  tell,  monsieur!"  vaguely  commented 
the  little  learned  official. 

M.  Mornay  was  not  to  be  evaded.  "Yes,  yes, 
but  the  case  as  it  stands — to  you  who  are  wise  in 
experience  of  legal  affairs,  does  it  seem  at  all  a  sure 
thing  for  him?" 

"I  wish  I  could  say  it  was,  monsieur,"  sadly 
answered  the  other. 

The  Big  Financier  nodded  vigorously.  "Exactly. 
Nothing  is  so  unproductive  as  the  law.  It  is  ex- 
pensive whether  you  win  or  lose,  and  it  is  murder- 
ously expensive  when  you  do  lose.  You  will  ob- 
serve, I  know,  that  your  Jean  Jacques  is  a  man  who 
can  only  be  killed  once — eh?" 

"Monsieur?"  M.  Fille  really  did  not  grasp  this 
remark. 

M.  Mornay's  voice  became  precise.  "I  will 
explain.  He  has  never  created;  he  has  only  devel- 
oped what  has  been  created.  He  inherited  much 
of  what  he  has  or  has  had.  His  designs  were  always 
affected  by  the  fact  that  he  had  never  built  from  the 
very  bottom.  When  he  goes  to  pieces ' 

"Monsieur — to  pieces!"  exclaimed  the  Clerk  of 
the  Court  painfully. 

"Well,  put  it  another  way.  //  he  is  broken 
financially,  he  will  never  come  up  again.  Not  be- 

213 


The  Money  Master 


cause  of  his  age — I  lost  a  second  fortune  at  fifty, 
and  have  a  third  ready  to  lose  at  sixty — but  because 
the  primary  initiative  won't  be  in  him.  He'll  say 
he  has  lost,  and  that  there's  an  end  to  it  all.  His 
philosophy  will  come  into  play — just  at  the  last.  It 
will  help  him  in  one  way  and  harm  him  in  another." 

"Ah,  then  you  know  about  his  philosophy,  mon- 
sieur?" queried  M.  Fille.  Was  Jean  Jacques'  phi- 
losophy, after  all,  to  be  a  real  concrete  asset  of  his 
life  sooner  or  later? 

The  Big  Financier  smiled,  and  turned  some  coins 
over  in  his  pocket  rather  loudly.  Presently  he  said: 
"The  first  time  I  ever  saw  him  he  treated  me  to  a 
page  of  Descartes.  It  cost  him  one  per  cent.  I 
always  charge  a  man  for  talking  sentiment  to  me 
in  business  hours.  I  had  to  listen  to  him,  and  he 
had  to  pay  me  for  listening.  I've  no  doubt  his 
general  yearly  expenditure  has  been  increased  for 
the  same  reason — eh,  Mattre  Fille?  He  has  done  it 
with  others — yes?" 

M.  Fille  waved  a  hand  in  deprecation,  and  his 
voice  had  a  little  acidity  as  he  replied:  "Ah,  mon- 
sieur, what  can  we  poor  provincials  do  —  any  of 
us — in  dealing  with  men  like  you,  philosophy  or  no 
philosophy?  You  get  us  between  the  upper  and  the 
nether  mill-stones.  You  are  cosmopolitan;  M.  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille  is  a  provincial;  and  you,  because 
he  has  soul  enough  to  forget  business  for  a  moment 
and  to  speak  of  things  that  matter  more  than  money 
and  business,  you  grind  him  into  powder." 

M.  Mornay  shook  his  head  and  lighted  his  cigar 
again.  "There  you  are  wrong,  Maitre  Fille.  It  is 

214 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


bad  policy  to  grind  to  powder,  or  grind  at  all,  men 
out  of  whom  you  are  making  money.  It  is  better 
to  keep  them  from  between  the  upper  and  nether 
mill-stones.  I  have  done  so  with  your  Barbille. 
I  could  give  him  such  trouble  as  would  bring  things 
crashing  down  upon  him  at  once,  if  I  wanted  to  be 
merely  vicious  in  getting  my  own;  but  that  would 
make  it  impossible  for  me  to  meet  at  dinner  my 
friend  Judge  Carcasson.  So,  as  long  as  I  can,  I 
will  not  press  him.  But  I  tell  you  that  the  margin 
of  safety  on  which  he  is  moving  now  is  too  narrow 
— scarce  a  foot-hold.  He  has  too  much  under 
construction  in  the  business  of  his  life,  and  if  one 
stone  slips  out,  down  may  come  the  whole  pile. 
He  has  stopped  building  the  cheese-factory — that 
represents  sheer  loss.  The  ash-factory  is  to  close 
next  week,  the  saw-mill  is  only  paying  its  way,  and 
the  flour-mill  and  the  farms,  which  have  to  sustain 
the  call  of  his  many  interests,  can't  stand  the  drain. 
Also  he  has  several  people  heavily  indebted  to  him, 
and  if  they  go  down — well,  it  depends  on  the  sound- 
ness of  the  security  he  holds.  If  they  listened  to 
him  talk  philosophy,  encouraged  him  to  do  it,  and 
told  him  they  liked  it,  when  the  bargain  was  being 
made,  the  chances  are  the  security  is  inadequate." 
The  Clerk  of  the  Court  bridled  up.  "Monsieur, 
you  are  very  hard  on  a  man  who  for  twenty-five 
years  has  been  a  figure  and  a  power  in  this  part  of 
the  province.  You  sneer  at  one  who  has  been  a 
benefactor  to  the  place  where  he  lives;  who  has 
given  with  the  right  hand  and  the  left;  whose 
enterprise  has  been  a  source  of  profit  to  many;  and 

215 


The  Money  Master 


who  has  got  a  savage  reward  for  the  acts  of  a  blame- 
less and  generous  life.  You  know  his  troubles,  mon- 
sieur, and  we  who  have  seen  him  bear  them  with 
fortitude  and  Christian  philosophy,  we  resent — 

"You  need  resent  nothing,  Maitre  Fille,"  inter- 
rupted the  Big  Financier,  not  unkindly.  "What 
I  have  said  has  been  said  to  his  friend  and  the  friend 
of  my  own  great  friend,  Judge  Carcasson ;  and  I  am 
only  anxious  that  he  should  be  warned  by  someone 
whose  opinions  count  with  him;  whom  he  can 
trust " 

"But,  monsieur,  alas!"  broke  in  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  "that  is  the  trouble;  he  does  not  select  those 
he  can  trust.  He  is  too  confiding.  He  believes 
those  who  flatter  him,  who  impose  on  his  good  heart. 
It  has  always  been  so." 

"I  judge  it  is  so  still  in  the  case  of  Monsieur 
Dolores,  his  daughter's  grandfather?"  the  Big  Fi- 
nancier asked  quizzically. 

"It  is  so,  monsieur,"  replied  M.  Fille.  "The  loss 
of  his  daughter  shook  him  even  more  than  the  flight 
of  his  wife;  and  it  is  as  though  he  could  not  live 
without  that  scoundrel  near  him — a  vicious  man, 
who  makes  trouble  wherever  he  goes.  He  was  a 
cause  of  loss  to  M.  Barbille  years  ago  when  he 
managed  the  ash-factory;  he  is  very  dangerous  to 
women — even  now  he  is  a  danger  to  the  future  of  a 
young  widow"  (he  meant  the  widow  of  Palass 
Poucette);  "and  he  has  caused  a  scandal  by  per- 
jury as  a  witness,  and  by  the  consequences — but 
I  need  not  speak  of  that  here.  He  will  do  Jean 
Jacques  great  harm  in  the  end,  of  that  I  am  sure. 

216 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


The  very  day  Mademoiselle  Zoe  left  the  Manor 
Cartier  to  marry  the  English  actor,  Jean  Jacques 
took  that  Spanish  bad-lot  to  his  home ;  and  there  he 
stays,  and  the  old  friends  go — the  old  friends  go; 
and  he  does  not  seem  to  miss  them." 

There  was  something  like  a  sob  in  M.  Fille's 
voice.  He  had  loved  Zoe  in  a  way  that  in  a  mother 
would  have  meant  martyrdom  if  necessary,  and  in  a 
father  would  have  meant  sacrifice  when  needed; 
and  indeed  he  had  sacrificed  both  time  and  money 
to  find  Zoe.  He  had  even  gone  as  far  as  Winnipeg 
on  the  chance  of  finding  her,  making  that  first  big 
journey  in  the  world,  which  was  as  much  to  him  in 
all  ways  as  a  journey  to  Bagdad  would  mean  to 
most  people  of  M.  Mornay's  world.  Also  he  had 
spent  money  since  in  corresponding  with  lawyers 
in  the  West  whom  he  engaged  to  search  for  her; 
but  Zoe  had  never  been  found.  She  had  never 
written  but  one  letter  to  Jean  Jacques  since  her 
flight.  This  letter  said,  in  effect,  that  she  would 
come  back  when  her  husband  was  no  longer  "a 
beggar"  as  her  father  had  called  him,  and  not  till 
then.  It  was  written  en  route  to  Winnipeg,  at  the 
dictation  of  Gerard  Fynes,  who  had  a  romantic 
view  of  life  and  a  mistaken  pride,  but  some  courage 
too — the  courage  of  love. 

"He  thinks  his  daughter  will  come  back — yes?" 
asked  M.  Mornay.  "Once  he  said  to  me  that  he 
was  sorry  there  was  no  lady  to  welcome  me  at  the 
Manor  Cartier,  but  that  he  hoped  his  daughter 
would  yet  have  the  honour.  His  talk  is  quite  spa- 
cious and  lofty  at  times,  as  you  know." 

217 


The  Money  Master 


"So — that  is  so,  monsieur  .  .  .  Mademoiselle  Zoe's 
room  is  always  ready  for  her.  At  time  of  Noel  he 
sent  cards  to  all  the  families  of  the  parish  who  had 
been  his  friends,  as  from  his  daughter  and  himself; 
and  when  people  came  to  visit  at  the  Manor  on  New 
Year's  Day,  he  said  to  each  and  all  that  his  daughter 
regretted  she  could  not  arrive  in  time  from  the  West 
to  receive  them;  but  that  next  year  she  would  cer- 
tainly have  the  pleasure." 

"Like  the  light  in  the  window  for  the  unreturn- 
ing  sailor,"  somewhat  cynically  remarked  the  Big 
Financier.  "Did  many  come  to  the  Manor  on  that 
New  Year's  Day?" 

"But  yes,  many,  monsieur.  Some  came  from 
kindness,  and  some  because  they  were  curious— 

"And  Monsieur  Dolores?" 

The  lips  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  curled.  "He 
went  about  with  a  manner  as  soft  as  that  of  a 
young  cure.  Butter  would  not  melt  in  his  mouth. 
Some  of  the  women  were  sorry  for  him,  until  they 
knew  he  had  given  one  of  Jean  Jacques'  best  bear- 
skin rugs  to  Madame  Palass  Poucette  for  a  New 
Year's  gift." 

The  Big  Financier  laughed  cheerfully.  "It's  an 
old  way  to  popularity — being  generous  with  other 
people's  money.  That  is  why  I  am  here.  The 
people  that  spend  your  Jean  Jacques'  money  will 
be  spending  mine  too,  if  I  don't  take  care." 

M.  Fille  noted  the  hard  look  which  now  settled 
in  M.  Mornay's  face,  and  it  disturbed  him.  He  rose 
and  leaned  over  the  table  towards  his  visitor  anx- 
iously. 

218 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


"Tell  me,  if  you  please,  monsieur,  is  there  any 
real  and  immediate  danger  of  the  financial  collapse 
of  Jean  Jacques?" 

The  other  regarded  M.  Fille  with  a  look  of  con- 
sideration. He  liked  this  Clerk  of  the  Court,  but 
he  liked  Jean  Jacques  for  the  matter  of  that,  and 
away  now  from  the  big  financial  arena  where  he 
usually  worked,  his  natural  instincts  had  play.  He 
had  come  to  St.  Saviour's  with  a  bigger  thing  in  his 
mind  than  Jean  Jacques  and  his  affairs ;  he  had  come 
on  the  matter  of  a  railway,  and  had  taken  Jean 
Jacques  on  the  w,ay,  as  it  were.  The  scheme  for  the 
railway  looked  very  promising  to  him,  and  he  was 
in  good  humour;  so  that  all  he  said  about  Jean 
Jacques  was  free  from  that  general  irritation  oi 
spirit  which  has  sacrificed  many  a  small  man  on  a 
big  man's  altar.  He  saw  the  agitation  he  had  caused, 
and  he  almost  repented  of  what  he  had  already  said ; 
yet  he  had  acted  with  a  view  to  getting  M.  Fille  to 
warn  Jean  Jacques. 

"I  repeat  what  I  said,"  he  now  replied.  "Mon- 
sieur Jean  Jacques'  affairs  are  too  nicely  balanced. 
A  little  shove  one  way  or  another  and  over  goes  the 
whole  caboose.  If  anyone  here  has  influence  over 
him,  it  would  be  a  kindness  to  use  it.  That  case 
before  the  Court  of  Appeal,  for  instance;  he'd  be 
better  advised  to  settle  it,  if  there  is  still  time. 
One  or  two  of  the  mortgages  he  holds  ought  to  be 
foreclosed,  so  that  he  may  get  out  of  them  all  the 
law  will  let  him.  He  ought  to  pouch  the  money 
that's  owing  him;  he  ought  to  shave  away  his  insur- 
ance, his  lightning-rod,  and  his  horse-dealing,  busi- 

219 


The  Money  Master 


ness;  and  he  ought  to  sell  his  farms  and  his  store, 
and  concentrate  on  the  flour-mill  and  the  saw-mill. 
He  has  had  his  warnings  generally  from  my  lawyers, 
but  what  he  wants  most  is  the  gentle  hand  to  lead 
him;  and  I  should  think  that  yours,  M.  Fille,  is 
the  hand  the  Almighty  would  choose  if  He  was  con- 
cerned with  what  happens  at  St.  Saviour's  and 
wanted  an  agent." 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  blushed  greatly.  This  was 
a  very  big  man  indeed  in  the  great  commercial 
world,  and  flattery  from  him  had  unusual  signifi- 
cance; but  he  threw  out  his  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
helplessness,  and  said :  "Monsieur,  if  I  could  be  of  use 
I  would ;  but  he  has  ceased  to  listen  to  me ;  he — 

He  got  no  further,  for  there  was  a  sharp  knock  at 
the  street  door  of  the  outer  office,  and  M.  Fille  has- 
tened to  the  other  room.  After  a  moment  he  came 
back,  a  familiar  voice  following  him. 

"It  is  Monsieur  Barbille,  monsieur,"  M.  Fille  said 
quietly,  but  with  apprehensive  eyes. 

"Well — he  wants  to  see  me?"  asked  M.  Mornay. 

"No,  no,  monsieur.  It  would  be  better  if  he  did 
not  see  you.  He  is  in  some  agitation." 

"Fille!  Maitre  Fille — be  quick  now,"  called  Jean 
Jacques'  voice  from  the  other  room. 

"What  did  I  say,  monsieur?"  asked  the  Big 
Financier.  "The  mind  that's  received  a  blow  must 
be  moving — moving;  the  man  with  the  many  irons 
must  be  flying  from  bellows  to  bellows!" 

"Come,  come,  there's  no  time  to  lose,"  came  Jean 
Jacques'  voice  again,  and  the  handle  of  the  door  of 
their  room  turned. 

220 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


M.  Fille's  hand  caught  the  handle.  "Excuse  me, 
Monsieur  Barbille, — a  minute  please,"  he  persisted 
almost  querulously.  "Be  good  enough  to  keep  your 
manners  .  .  .  monsieur!"  he  added  to  the  Financier, 
"if  you  do  not  wish  to  speak  with  him,  there  is  a 
door" — he  pointed — "which  will  let  you  into  the 
side-street." 

"What  is  his  trouble?"  asked  M.  Mornay. 

M.  Fille  hesitated,  then  said  reflectively:  "He 
has  lost  his  case  in  the  Appeal  Court,  monsieur;  also, 
his  cousin,  Auguste  Charron,  who  has  been  working 
the  Latouche  farm,  has  flitted,  leaving 

"Leaving  Jean  Jacques  to  pay  unexpected  debts?" 

"So,  monsieur." 

"Then  I  can  be  of  no  use,  I  fear,"  remarked  M. 
Mornay  dryly. 

"Fille!  Fille!"  came  the  voice  of  Jean  Jacques 
insistently  from  the  room. 

"And  so  I  will  say  au  revoir,  Monsieur  Fille," 
continued  the  Big  Financier. 

A  moment  later  the  great  man  was  gone,  and  M. 
Fille  was  alone  with  the  philosopher  of  the  Manor 
Cartier. 

"Well,  well,  why  do  you  keep  me  waiting!  Who 
was  it  in  there — anyone  that's  concerned  with  my 
affairs?"  asked  Jean  Jacques. 

In  these  days  he  was  sensitive  when  there  was  no 
cause,  and  he  was  credulous  where  he  ought  to  be 
suspicious.  The  fact  that  the  little  man  had  held  the 
door  against  him  made  him  sure  that  M.  Fille  had 
not  wished  him  to  see  the  departed  visitor. 

221 


The  Money  Master 


"Come,  out  with  it — who  was  it  making  fresh 
trouble  for  me?"  persisted  Jean  Jacques. 

"No  one  making  trouble  for  you,  my  friend," 
answered  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  "but  someone  who 
was  trying  to  do  you  a  good  turn." 

"He  must  have  been  a  stranger  then,"  returned 
Jean  Jacques  bitterly.  "Who  was  it?" 

M.  Fille,  after  an  instant's  further  hesitation,  told 
him. 

"Oh,  him — M.  Mornay!"  exclaimed  Jean  Jacques, 
with  a  look  of  relief,  his  face  lighting.  "That's  a 
big  man  with  a  most  capable  and  far-reaching  mind. 
He  takes  a  thing  in  as  the  ocean  mouths  a  river. 
If  I  had  had  men  like  that  to  deal  with  all  my  life, 
what  a  different  ledger  I'd  be  balancing  now! 
Descartes,  Kant,  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  Hume,  Hegel 
— he  has  an  ear  for  them  all.  That  is  the  intellectual 
side  of  him;  and  in  business" — he  threw  up  a  hand 
—"there  he  views  the  landscape  from  the  mountain- 
top.  He  has  vision,  strategy,  executive.  He  is 
Napoleon  and  Anacreon  in  one.  He  is  of  the  builders 
on  the  one  hand,  of  the  Illuminati  and  the  Encyclo- 
ptdistes  on  the  other." 

Even  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  with  his  circum- 
scribed range  of  thought  and  experience,  in  that 
moment  saw  Jean  Jacques  as  he  really  was.  Here 
was  a  man  whose  house  of  life  was  beginning  to  sway 
from  an  earthquake;  who  had  been  smitten  in  sev- 
eral deadly  ways,  and  was  about  to  receive  buffet- 
ings  beyond  aught  he  had  yet  experienced,  philoso- 
phising on  the  tight-rope — Blondin  and  Plato  in 
one.  Yet  sardonically  piteous  as  it  was,  the  incident 

222 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


had  shown  Jean  Jacques  with  the  germ  of  something 
big  in  him.  He  had  recognized  in  M.  Mornay,  who 
could  level  him  to  the  dust  to-morrow  financially,  a 
master  of  the  world's  affairs,  a  prospector  of  life's 
fields,  who  would  march  fearlessly  beyond  the^ 
farthest  frontiers  into  the  unknown.  Jean  Jacques' 
admiration  of  the  lion  who  could,  and  would,  slay 
him  was  the  best  tribute  to  his  own  character. 

M.  Fine's  eyes  moistened  as  he  realized  it;  and  he 
knew  that  nothing  he  could  say  or  do  would  make 
this  man  accommodate  his  actions  to  the  hard  rules 
of  the  business  of  life;  he  must  for  ever  be  applying 
to  them  conceptions  of  a  half -developed  mind. 

"Quite  so,  quite  so,  Jean  Jacques,"  M.  Fille 
responded  gently,  "but" — here  came  a  firmer  note 
to  his  voice,  for  he  had  taken  to  heart  the  lesson  M. 
Mornay  had  taught  him,  and  he  was  determined  to 
do  his  duty  now  when  the  opportunity  was  in  his 
hand — "but  you  have  got  to  deal  with  things  as 
they  are ;  not  as  they  might  have  been.  If  you  can- 
not have  the  great  men,  you  have  to  deal  with  the 
little  men — like  me.  You  have  to  prove  yourself 
bigger  than  the  rest  of  us  by  doing  things  better. 
A  man  doesn't  fail  only  because  of  others,  but  also 
because  of  himself.  You  were  warned  that  the 
chances  were  all  against  you  in  the  case  that's  just 
been  decided,  yet  you  would  go  on ;  you  were  warned 
that  your  cousin,  Auguste  Charron,  was  in  debt,  and 
that  his  wife  was  mad  to  get  away  from  the  farm 
and  go  West,  yet  you  would  take  no  notice.  Now 
he  has  gone,  and  you  have  to  pay,  and  your  case 
has  gone  against  you  in  the  Appellate  Court  besides. 

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The  Money  Master 


...  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,  my  friend,  even  if  it 
cuts  me  to  the  heart.  You  have  not  kept  your  judg- 
ment in  hand;  you  have  gone  ahead  like  a  bull  at 
a  gate;  and  you  pay  the  price.  You  listen  to  those 
who  flatter,  and  on  those  who  would  go  through 
fire  and  water  for  you,  you  turn  your  back — on  those 
who  would  help  you  in  your  hour  of  trouble,  in 
your  dark  day." 

Jean  Jacques  drew  himself  up  with  a  gesture  im- 
patient, masterful  and  forbidding.  "I  have  fought 
my  fight  alone  in  the  dark  day;  I  have  not  asked 
for  anyone's  help,"  he  answered.  "I  have  wept  on 
no  man's  shoulder.  I  have  been  mauled  by  the 
claws  of  injury  and  shame,  and  I  have  not  flinched. 
I  have  healed  my  own  wounds,  and  I  wear  my  scars 
without— 

He  stopped,  for  there  came  a  sharp  rat-tat-tat  at 
the  door  which  opened  into  the  street.  Somehow 
the  commonplace,  trivial  interruption  produced  on 
both  a  strange,  even  startling  effect.  It  suddenly 
produced  in  their  minds  a  feeling  of  apprehension,  as 
though  there  was  whispered  in  their  ears,  "Some- 
thing is  going  to  happen — beware!" 

Rat-tat-tat!  The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 
The  same  thought  was  in  the  minds  of  both.  Jean 
Jacques  clutched  at  his  beard  nervously,  then  with 
an  effort  he  controlled  himself.  He  took  off  his  hat 
as  though  he  was  about  to  greet  some  important 
person,  or  to  receive  sentence  in  a  court.  Instinc- 
tively he  felt  the  little  book  of  philosophy  which  he 
always  carried  now  in  his  breast-pocket,  as  a  pietist 
would  finger  his  beads  in  moments  of  fear  or  anxiety. 

224 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


The  Clerk  of  the  Court  passed  his  thin  hand  over  his 
hair,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  in  court  when  the  Judge 
began  his  charge  to  the  jury,  and  then  with  an  action 
more  impulsive  than  was  usual  with  him,  he  held 
out  his  hand,  and  Jean  Jacques  grasped  it.  Some- 
thing was  bringing  them  together  just  when  it 
seemed  that,  in  the  storm  of  Jean  Jacques'  indigna- 
tion, they  were  about  to  fall  apart.  M.  Fille's  eyes 
said  as  plainly  as  words  could  do,  "Courage,  my 
friend!" 

Rat-tat-tat!  Rat-tat-tat!  The  knocking  was  sharp 
and  imperative  now.  The  Clerk  of  the  Court  went 
quickly  forward  and  threw  open  the  door. 

There  stepped  inside  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette. 
She  had  a  letter  in  her  hand.  "M'sieu',  pardon,  if 
I  intrude,"  she  said  to  M.  Fille;  "but  I  heard  that 
M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  was  here.  I  Jiave  news  for 
him." 

' '  News !"  repeated  Jean  Jacques,  and  he  looked  like 
a  man  who  was  waiting  for  what  he  feared  to  hear. 

"They  told  me  at  the  post-office  that  you  were 
here.  I  got  the  letter  only  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago,  and  I  thought  I  would  go  at  once  to  the  Manor 
Cartier  and  tell  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  what  the  letter 
says.  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  Manor  Cartier  for  some- 
thing else  as  well,  but  I  will  speak  of  that  by  and  by. 
It  is  the  letter  now." 

She  pulled  off  first  one  glove  and  then  the  other, 
still  holding  the  letter,  as  though  she  was  about  to 
perform  some  ceremony.  "It  was  a  good  thing  I 
found  out  that  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  was  here.  It 
saves  a  four-mile  drive,"  she  remarked. 
15  22S 


The  Money  Master 


"The  news — ah,  nom  de  Dieu,  the  slowness  of  the 
woman — like  a  river  going  uphill!"  exclaimed  Jean 
Jacques,  who  was  finding  it  hard  to  still  the  trembling 
of  his  limbs. 

The  widow  of  Palass  Poucette  flushed,  but  she  had 
some  sense  in  her  head,  and  she  realized  that  Jean 
Jacques  was  a  little  unbalanced  at  the  moment. 
Indeed,  Jean  Jacques  was  not  so  old  that  she  would 
have  found  it  difficult  to  take  a  well-defined  and 
warm  interest  in  him,  were  circumstances  propitious. 
She  held  out  the  letter  to  him  at  once.  "It  is  from 
my  sister  in  the  West — at  Shilah,"  she  explained. 
"There  is  nothing  in  it  you  can't  read,  and  most  of  it 
concerns  you." 

Jean  Jacques  took  the  letter,  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  read  it,  for  Virginie  Poucette's  man- 
ner was  not  suggestive  of  happy  tidings.  After  an 
instant's  hesitation  he  handed  the  letter  to  M.  Fille, 
who  pressed  his  lips  with  an  air  of  determination, 
and  put  on  his  glasses. 

Jean  Jacques  saw  the  face  of  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
flush  and  then  turn  pale  as  he  read  the  letter. 
"There,  be  quick!"  he  said  before  M.  Fille  had  turned 
the  first  page. 

Then  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette  came  to  him 
and,  in  a  simple  harmless  way  she  had,  free  from 
coquetry  or  guile,  stood  beside  him,  took  his  hand 
and  held  it.  He  seemed  almost  unconscious  of  her 
act,  but  his  fingers  convulsively  tightened  on  hers; 
while  she  reflected  that  here  was  one  who  needed 
help  sorely;  here  was  a  good,  warm-hearted  man  on 
whom  a  woman  could  empty  out  affection  like  rain 

226 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


and  get  a  good  harvest.  She  really  was  as  simple  as 
a  child,  was  Virginie  Poucette,  and  even  in  her  ac- 
quaintance with  Sebastian  Dolores,  there  had  only 
been  working  in  her  the  natural  desire  of  a  primitive 
woman  to  have  a  man  saying  that  which  would  keep 
alive  in  her  the  things  that  make  her  sing  as  she 
toils;  and  certainly  Virginie  toiled  late  and  early 
on  her  farm.  She  really  was  concerned  for  Jean 
Jacques.  Both  wife  and  daughter  had  taken  flight, 
and  he  was  alone  and  in  trouble.  At  this  moment 
she  felt  she  would  like  to  be  a  sister  to  him — she 
was  young  enough  to  be  his  daughter  almost.  Her 
heart  was  kind. 

"Now!"  said  Jean  Jacques  at  last,  as  the  Clerk 
of  the  Court's  eyes  reached  the  end  of  the  last  page. 
"Now,  speak!    It  is — it  is  my  Zoe?" 
,     "It  is  our  Zoe,"  answered  M.  Fille. 

"Figure  de  Christ,  what  do  you  wait  for — she  is 
not  dead?"  exclaimed  Jean  Jacques  with  a  courage 
which  made  him  set  his  feet  squarely. 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  shook  his  head  and  be- 
gan. "She  is  alive.  Madame  Poucette's  sister  saw 
her  by  chance.  Zoe  was  on  her  way  up  the  Saskat- 
chewan River  to  the  Peace  River  country  with  her 
husband.  Her  husband's  health  was  bad.  He  had 
to  leave  the  stage  in  the  United  States  where  he  had 
gone  after  Winnipeg.  The  doctors  said  he  must 
live  the  open-air  life.  He  and  Zoe  were  going  north 
to  take  a  farm  somewhere." 

"Somewhere!  Somewhere!"  murmured  Jean 
Jacques.  "The  farther  away  from  Jean  Jacques 
the  better — that  is  what  she  thinks." 

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The  Money  Master 


"No,  you  are  wrong,  my  friend,"  rejoined  M. 
Fille.  "She  said  to  Madame  Poucette's  sister" — 
he  held  up  the  letter — "that  when  they  had  proved 
they  could  live  without  anybody's  help  they  would 
come  back  to  see  you.  Zoe  thought  that,  having 
taken  her  life  in  her  own  hands,  she  ought  to  justify 
herself  before  she  asked  your  forgiveness  and  a 
place  at  your  table.  She  felt  that  you  could  only 
love  her  and  be  glad  of  her,  if  her  man  was  independ- 
ent of  you.  It  is  a  proud  and  sensitive  soul — but 
there  it  is!" 

"It  is  romance,  it  is  quixotism — ah,  heart  of  God, 
what  quixotism!"  exclaimed  Jean  Jacques. 

"She  gets  her  romance  and  quixotism  from 
Jean  Jacques  Barbille,"  retorted  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court.  "She  does  more  feeling  than  thinking — 
like  you." 

Jean  Jacques'  heart  was  bleeding,  but  he  drew 
himself  up  proudly,  and  caught  his  hand  away  from 
the  warm  palm  of  Poucette's  widow.  As  his  affairs 
crumbled  his  pride  grew  more  insistent.  M.  Fille 
had  challenged  his  intellect — his  intellect! 

"My  life  has  been  a  procession  of  practical  things," 
he  declared  oracularly.  "I  have  been  a  man  of 
business  who  designs.  I  am  no  dreamer.  I  think. 
I  act.  I  suffer.  I  have  been  the  victim  of  romance, 
not  its  interpreter.  Mercy  of  God,  what  has  broken 
my  life,  what  but  romance — romance,  first  with  one 
and  then  with  another !  More  feeling  than  thinking, 
Maitre  Fille  —  you  say  that?  Why,  the  Barbilles 
have  ever  in  the  past  built  up  life  on  a  basis  of  thought 
and  action,  and  I  have  added  philosophy — the  science 

228 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


of  thought  and  act.  Jean  Jacques  Barbille  has  been 
the  man  of  design  and  the  man  of  action  also.  Don 
Quixote  was  a  fool,  a  dreamer,  but  Jean  Jacques  is 
no  Don  Quixote.  He  is  a  man  who  has  done  things, 
but  also  he  is  a  man  who  has  been  broken  on  the 
wheel  of  life.  He  is  a  man  whose  heart-strings  have 
been  torn " 

He  had  worked  himself  up  into  a  fit  of  eloquence 
and  revolt.  He  was  touched  by  the  rod  of  despera- 
tion, which  makes  the  soul  protest  that  it  is  right 
when  it  knows  that  it  is  wrong. 

Suddenly,  breaking  off  his  speech,  he  threw  up  his 
hands  and  made  for  the  door. 

"I  will  fight  it  out  alone!"  he  declared  with  rough 
emotion,  and  at  the  door  he  turned  towards  them 
again.  He  looked  at  them  both  as  though  he  would 
dare  them  to  contradict  him.  The  restless  fire  of 
his  eyes  seemed  to  dart  from  one  to  the  other. 

"That's  the  way  it  is,"  said  the  widow  of  Palass 
Poucette,  coming  quickly  forward  to  him.  "It's 
always  the  way.  We  must  fight  our  battles  alone, 
but  we  don't  have  to  bear  the  wounds  alone.  In  the 
battle  you  are  alone,  but  the  hand  to  heal  the 
wounds  may  be  another's.  You  are  a  philosopher — 
well,  what  I  speak  is  true,  isn't  it?" 

Virginie  had  said  the  one  thing  which  could  have 
stayed  the  tide  of  Jean  Jacques'  pessimism  and 
broken  his  cloud  of  gloom.  She  appealed  to  him  in 
the  tune  of  an  old  song.  The  years  and  the  curses 
of  years  had  not  dispelled  the  illusion  that  he  was 
a  philosopher. 

He  stopped  with  his  hand  on  the  door. 
229 


The  Money  Master 


"That's  so,  without  doubt  that's  so,"  he  said. 
"You  have  stumbled  on  a  truth  of  life,  madame." 

Suddenly  there  came  into  his  look  something  of 
the  yearning  and  hunger  which  the  lonely  and  for- 
saken feel  when  they  are  not  on  the  full  tide  of 
doing.  It  was  as  though  he  must  have  compan- 
ionship, in  spite  of  his  brave  announcement  that  he 
must  fight  his  fight  alone.  He  had  been  wounded 
in  the  battle,  and  here  was  one  who  held  out  the 
hand  of  healing  to  him.  Never  since  his  wife  had 
left  him  the  long,  lonely  years  ago  had  a  woman 
meant  anything  to  him  except  as  one  of  a  race; 
but  in  this  moment  here  a  woman  had  held  his 
hand,  and  he  could  feel  still  the  warm  palm  which 
had  comforted  his  own  agitated  fingers. 

Virginie  Poucette  saw,  and  she  understood  what 
was  passing  in  his  mind.  Yet  she  did  not  see  and 
understand  all  by  any  means;  and  it  is  hard  to  tell 
what  further  show  of  fire  there  might  have  been, 
but  that  the  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  there,  saying 
harshly  under  his  breath,  "The  huzzy!  The  crafty 
huzzy!" 

The  Clerk  of  the  Court  was  wrong.  Virginie  was 
merely  sentimental,  not  intriguing  or  deceitful;  for 
Jean  Jacques  was  not  a  widower — and  she  was  an 
honest  woman  and  genuinely  tender-hearted. 

"I'm  coming  to  the  Manor  Cartier  to-morrow," 
Virginie  continued.  "I  have  a  rug  of  yours.  By 
mistake  it  was  left  at  my  house  by  M'sieu'  Dolores." 

"You  needn't  do  that.  I  will  call  at  your  place 
to-morrow  for  it,"  replied  Jean  Jacques  almost 
eagerly. 

230 


Misfortunes  come  not  singly 


"I  told  M'sieu'  Dolores  to-day  never  to  enter  my 
house  again.  I  didn't  know  it  was  your  rug.  It 
was  giving  away  your  property,  not  his  own,"  she 
hurriedly  explained,  and  her  face  flushed. 

"That  is  the  Spanish  of  it,"  said  Jean  Jacques 
bitterly.  His  eyes  were  being  opened  in  many 
directions  to-day. 

M.  Fille  was  in  distress.  Jean  Jacques  had  had 
a  warning  about  Sebastian  Dolores,  but  here  was 
another  pit  into  which  he  might  fall,  the  pit  digged 
by  a  widow,  who,  no  doubt,  would  not  hesitate  to 
marry  a  divorced  Catholic  philosopher,  if  he  could 
get  a  divorce  by  hook  or  by  crook.  Jean  Jacques 
had  said  that  he  was  going  to  Virginie  Poucette's 
place  the  next  day.  That  was  as  bad  as  it  could 
be;  yet  there  was  this  to  the  good,  that  it  was  to- 
morrow and  not  to-day;  and  who  could  tell  what 
might  happen  between  to-day  and  to-morrow! 

I 

A  moment  later  the  three  were  standing  outside 

the  office  in  the  street.  As  Jean  Jacques  climbed 
into  his  red  wagon,  Virginie  Poucette's  eyes  were 
attracted  to  the  northern  sky  where  a  reddish  glow 
appeared,  and  she  gave  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"That  must  be  a  fire,"  she  said,  pointing. 

"A  bit  of  pine-land  probably,"  said  M.  Fille — 
with  anxiety,  however,  for  the  red  glow  lay  in  the 
direction  of  St.  Saviour's  where  were  the  Manor 
Cartier  and  Jean  Jacques'  mills.  Maitre  Fille  was 
possessed  of  a  superstition  that  all  the  things  which 
threaten  a  man's  life  to  wreck  it,  operate  awhile 
in  their  many  fields  before  they  converge  like  an 

231 


The  Money  Master 


army  in  one  field  to  deliver  the  last  attack  on  their 
victim.  It  would  not  have  seemed  strange  to  him, 
if  out  of  the  night  a  voice  of  the  unseen  had  said 
that  the  glow  in  the  sky  came  from  the  Manor 
Cartier.  This  very  day  three  things  had  smitten  Jean 
Jacques,  and,  if  three,  why  not  four  or  five,  or  fifty ! 

With  a  strange  fascination  Jean  Jacques'  eyes  were 
fastened  on  the  glow.  He  clucked  to  his  horses, 
and  they  started  jerkily  away.  M.  Fille  and  the 
widow  Poucette  said  good-bye  to  him,  but  he  did 
not  hear,  or  if  he  heard,  he  did  not  heed.  His  look 
was  set  upon  the  red  reflection  which  widened  in  the 
sky  and  seemed  to  grow  nearer  and  nearer.  The 
horses  quickened  their  pace.  He  touched  them  with 
the  whip,  and  they  went  faster.  The  glow  in- 
creased as  he  left  Vilray  behind.  He  gave  the  horses 
the  whip  again  sharply,  and  they  broke  into  a  gallop. 
Yet  his  eyes  scarcely  left  the  sky.  The  crimson 
glow  drew  him,  held  him,  till  his  brain  was  afire 
also.  Jean  Jacques  had  a  premonition  and  a  con- 
viction which  was  even  deeper  than  the  imagination 
ofM.  Fille. 

In  Vilray,  behind  him,  the  telegraph  clerk  was  in 
the  street  shouting  to  someone  to  summon  the  local 
fire-brigade  to  go  to  St.  Saviour's. 

"What  is  it— what  is  it?"  asked  M.  Fille  of  the 
telegraph  clerk  in  marked  agitation. 

"It's  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques'  flour-mill,"  was  the 
reply. 

Wagons  and  buggies  and  carts  began  to  take  the 
road  to  the  Manor  Cartier;  and  Maitre  Fille  went 
also  with  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HIS  GREATEST  ASSET 

JEAN  JACQUES  did  not  go  to  the  house  of  the 
widow  of  Palass  Poucette  "next  day"  as  he  had 
proposed:  and  she  did  not  expect  him.  She  had 
seen  his  flour-mill  burned  to  the  ground  on  the  eve- 
ning when  they  met  in  the  office  of  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  when  Jean  Jacques  had  learned  that  his  Zoe 
had  gone  into  farther  and  farther  places  away  from 
him.  Perhaps  Virginie  Poucette  never  had  shed 
as  many  tears  in  any  whole  year  of  her  life  as  she 
did  that  night,  not  excepting  the  year  Palass  Poucette 
died,  and  left  her  his  farm  and  seven  horses,  more  or 
less  sound,  and  a  threshing-machine  in  good  con- 
dition. The  woman  had  a  rare  heart  and  there  was 
that  about  Jean  Jacques  which  made  her  want  to 
help  him.  She  had  no  clear  idea  as  to  how  that 
could  be  done,  but  she  had  held  his  hand  at  any 
rate,  and  he  had  seemed  the  better  for  it.  Virginie 
had  only  an  objective  view  of  things;  and  if  she  was 
not  material,  still  she  could  best  express  herself 
through  the  medium  of  the  senses. 

There  were  others  besides  her  who  shed  tears  also 
— those  who  saw  Jean  Jacques'  chief  asset  sud- 
denly disappear  in  flame  and  smoke  and  all  his  other 

233 


The  Money  Master 


assets  become  thereby  liabilities  of  a  kind ;  and  there 
were  many  who  would  be  the  poorer  in  the  end 
because  of  it.  If  Jean  Jacques  went  down,  he  prob- 
ably would  not  go  alone.  Jean  Jacques  had  done 
a  good  fire-insurance  business  over  a  course  of  years, 
but  somehow  he  had  not  insured  himself  as  heavily  as 
he  ought  to  have  done;  and  in  any  case  the  fire- 
policy  for  the  mill  was  not  in  his  own  hands.  It 
was  in  the  safe-keeping  of  M.  Mornay  at  Montreal, 
who  had  warned  M.  Fille  of  the  crisis  in  the  money- 
master's  affairs  on  the  very  day  that  the  crisis  came. 
No  one  ever  knew  how  it  was  that  the  mill  took 
fire,  but  there  was  one  man  who  had  more  than  a 
shrewd  suspicion,  though  there  was  no  occasion  for 
mentioning  it.  This  was  Sebastian  Dolores.  He 
had  not  set  the  mill  afire.  That  would  have  been 
profitable  from  no  standpoint,  and  he  had  no  grudge 
against  Jean  Jacques.  Why  should  he  have  a 
grudge?  Jean  Jacques*  good  fortune,  as  things  were, 
made  his  own  good  fortune;  for  he  ate  and  drank 
and  slept  and  was  clothed  at  his  son-in-law's  expense. 
But  he  guessed  accurately  who  had  set  the  mill  on 
fire,  and  that  it  was  done  accidentally.  He  remem- 
bered that  a  man  who  smoked  bad  tobacco  which 
had  to  be  lighted  over  and  over  again,  threw  a 
burning  match  down  after  applying  it  to  his  pipe. 
He  remembered  that  there  was  a  heap  of  flour- 
bags  near  where  the  man  stood  when  the  match  was 
thrown  down;  and  that  some  loose  strings  for  tying 
were  also  in  a  pile  beside  the  bags.  So  it  was  easy 
for  the  thing  to  have  happened  if  the  man  did  not 
turn  round  after  he  threw  the  match  down,  but 

234 


His  greatest  asset 


went  swaying  on  out  of  the  mill,  and  over  to  the 
Manor  Cartier,  and  up  staggering  to  bed;  for  he 
had  been  drinking  potato-brandy,  and  he  had  been 
brought  up  on  the  mild  wines  of  Spain!  In  other 
words,  the  man  who  threw  down  the  lighted  match 
which  did  the  mischief  was  Sebastian  Dolores 
himself.  • 

He  regretted  it  quite  as  much  as  he  had  ever  re- 
gretted anything;  and  on  the  night  of  the  fire  there 
were  tears  in  his  large  brown  eyes  which  deceived 
the  New  Cur£  and  others;  though  they  did  not 
deceive  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette,  who  had  found 
him  out,  and  who  now  had  no  pleasure  at  all  in  his 
aged  gallantries.  But  the  regret  Dolores  experienced 
would  not  prevent  him  from  doing  Jean  Jacques 
still  greater  injury  if,  and  when,  the  chance  occurred, 
should  it  be  to  his  own  advantage. 

Jean  Jacques  shed  no  tears  on  the  night  that  his 
beloved  flour-mill  became  a  blackened  ruin,  and  his 
saw-mill  had  a  narrow  escape.  He  was  like  one  in  a 
dream,  scarcely  realizing  that  men  were  saying  kind 
things  to  him;  that  the  New  Cure  held  his  hand  and 
spoke  to  him  more  like  a  brother  than  one  whose 
profession  it  was  to  be  good  to  those  who  suffered. 
In  his  eyes  was  the  same  half-rapt,  intense,  distant 
look  which  came  into  them  when,  at  Vilray,  he  saw 
that  red  reflection  in  the  sky  over  against  St. 
Saviour's,  and  urged  his  horses  onward. 

The  world  knew  that  the  burning  of  the  mill  was 
a  blow  to  Jean  Jacques,  but  it  did  not  know  how 
great  and  heavy  the  blow  was.  First  one  and  then 
another  of  his  friends  said  he  was  insured,  and  that 

235 


The  Money  Master 


in  another  six  months  the  mill-wheel  would  be  turn- 
ing again.  They  said  so  to  Jean  Jacques  when  he 
stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  burning  fabric,  which 
nothing  could  save ;  but  he  showed  no  desire  to  speak. 
He  only  nodded  and  kept  on  staring  at  the  fire  with 
that  curious  underglow  in  his  eyes.  Some  chemistry 
of  the  soul  had  taken  place  in  him  in  the  hour  when 
he  drove  to  the  Manor  Cartier  from  Vilray,  and  it 
produced  a  strange  fire,  which  merged  into  the  re- 
flection of  the  sky  above  the  burning  mill.  Later, 
came  things  which  were  strange  and  eventful  in  his 
life,  but  that  underglow  was  for  ever  afterwards  in 
his  eyes.  It  was  in  singular  contrast  to  the  snapping 
fire  which  had  been  theirs  all  the  days  of  his  life  till 
now — the  snapping  fire  of  action,  will  and  design. 
It  still  was  there  when  they  said  to  him  suddenly 
that  the  wind  had  changed,  and  that  the  flame  and 
sparks  were  now  blowing  towards  the  saw-mill.  Even 
when  he  gave  orders,  and  set  to  work  to  defend  the 
saw-mill,  arranging  a  line  of  men  with  buckets  on 
its  roof,  and  so  saving  it,  this  look  remained.  It  was 
something  spiritual  and  unmaterial,  something,  may- 
be, which  had  to  do  with  the  philosophy  he  had 
preached,  thought  and  practised  over  long  years.  It 
did  not  disappear  when  at  last,  after  midnight,  every- 
one had  gone,  and  the  smouldering  ruins  of  his 
greatest  asset  lay  mournful  in  the  wan  light  of  the 
moon. 

Kind  and  good  friends  like  the  Clerk  of  the  Court 
and  the  New  Cure  had  seen  him  to  his  bedroom  at 
midnight,  leaving  him  there  with  a  promise  that  they 
would  come  on  the  morrow;  and  he  had  said  good- 

236 


His  greatest  asset 


night  evenly,  and  had  shut  the  door  upon  them  with 
a  sort  of  smile.  But  long  after  they  had  gone,  when 
Sebastian  Dolores  and  Seraphe  Corniche  were  asleep, 
he  had  got  up  again  and  left  the  house,  to  gaze  at  the 
spot  where  the  big  white  mill  with  the  red  roof  had 
been — the  mill  which  had  been  there  in  the  days  of 
the  Baron  of  Beaugard,  and  to  which  time  had  only 
added  size  and  adornment.  The  gold-cock  weather- 
vane  of  the  mill,  so  long  the  admiration  of  people 
living  and  dead,  and  indeed  the  symbol  of  himself, 
as  he  had  been  told,  being  so  full  of  life  and  pride, 
courage  and  vigour — it  lay  among  the  ruins,  black- 
ened relic  of  the  Barbilles. 

He  had  said  in  M.  Fille's  office  not  many  hours 
before,  "I  will  fight  it  all  out  alone,"  and  here  in  the 
tragic  quiet  of  the  night  he  made  his  resolve  a  reality. 
In  appearance  he  was  not  now  like  the  "Seigneur" 
who  sang  to  the  sailors  on  the  Antoine  when  she  was 
fighting  for  the  shore  of  Gaspe;  nevertheless  there 
was  that  in  him  which  would  keep  him  much  the 
same  man  to  the  end. 

Indeed,  as  he  got  into  bed  that  fateful  night  he  said 
aloud:  "They  shall  see  that  I  am  not  beaten.  If 
they  give  me  time  up  there  in  Montreal  I'll  keep  the 
place  till  Zoe  comes  back — till  Zoe  comes  home." 

As  he  lay  and  tried  to  sleep,  he  kept  saying  over 
to  himself,  "Till  Zo6  comes  home." 

He  thought  that  if  he  could  but  have  Zoe  back, 
it  all  would  not  matter  so  much.  She  would  keep 
looking  at  him  and  saying,  "There's  the  man  that 
never  flinched  when  things  went  wrong;  there's  the 
man  that  was  a  friend  to  everyone." 

237 


The  Money  Master 


At  last  a  thought  came  to  him — the  key  to  the 
situation  as  it  seemed,  the  one  thing  necessary  to 
meet  the  financial  situation.  He  would  sell  the 
biggest  farm  he  owned,  which  had  been  to  him  in 
its  importance  like  the  flour-mill  itself.  He  had  had 
an  offer  for  it  that  very  day,  and  a  bigger  offer  still 
a  week  before.  It  was  mortgaged  to  within  eight 
thousand  dollars  of  what  it  could  be  sold  for  but, 
if  he  could  gain  time,  that  eight  thousand  dollars 
would  build  the  mill  again.  M.  Mornay,  the  big 
financier,  would  certainly  see  that  this  was  his  due — 
to  get  his  chance  to  pull  things  straight.  Yes,  he 
would  certainly  sell  the  Barbille  Farm  to-morrow. 
With  this  thought  in  his  mind  he  went  to  sleep  at 
last,  and  he  did  not  wake  till  the  sun  was  high. 

It  was  a  sun  of  the  most  wonderful  brightness  and 
warmth.  Yesterday  it  would  have  made  the  Manor 
Cartier  and  all  around  it  look  like  Arcady.  But  as 
it  shone  upon  the  ruins  of  the  mill,  when  Jean  Jacques 
went  out  into  the  working  world  again,  it  made  so 
gaunt  and  hideous  a  picture  that,  in  spite  of  himself, 
a  cry  of  misery  came  from  his  lips. 

Through  all  the  misfortunes  which  had  come  to 
him  the  outward  semblance  of  things  had  remained, 
and  when  he  went  in  and  out  of  the  plantation  of 
the  Manor  Cartier,  there  was  no  physical  change  in 
the  surroundings,  which  betrayed  the  troubles  and 
disasters  fallen  upon  its  overlord.  There  it  all  was 
just  as  it  had  ever  been,  and  seeming  to  deny  that 
anything  had  changed  in  the  lives  of  those  who  made 
the  place  other  than  a  dead  or  deserted  world. 

238 


His  greatest  asset 


When  Carmen  went,  when  Zo6  fled,  when  his  cousin 
Auguste  Charron  took  his  flight,  when  defeats  at 
law  abashed  him,  the  house  and  mills,  and  stores 
and  offices,  and  goodly  trees,  and  well-kept  yards 
and  barns  and  cattle-sheds  all  looked  the  same. 
Thus  it  was  that  he  had  been  fortified.  In  one 
sense  his  miseries  had  seemed  unreal,  because  all 
was  the  same  in  the  outward  scene.  It  was  as 
though  it  all  said  to  him:  "It  is  a  dream  that 
those  you  love  have  vanished,  that  ill-fortune  sits 
by  your  fireside.  One  night  you  will  go  to  bed 
thinking  that  wife  and  child  have  gone,  that  your 
treasury  is  nearly  empty;  and  in  the  morning  you 
will  wake  up  and  find  your  loved  ones  sitting  in 
their  accustomed  places,  and  your  treasury  will  be 
full  to  overflowing  as  of  old." 

So  it  was  while  the  picture  of  his  home  scene 
remained  unbroken  and  serene;  but  the  hideous 
mass  of  last  night's  holocaust  was  now  before  his 
eyes,  with  little  streams  of  smoke  rising  from  the 
cindered  pile,  and  a  hundred  things  with  which  his 
eyes  had  been  familiar  lay  distorted,  excoriated  and 
useless.  He  realized  with  sudden  completeness  that 
a  terrible  change  had  come  in  his  life,  that  a  cyclone 
had  ruined  the  face  of  his  created  world. 

This  picture  did  more  to  open  up  Jean  Jacques' 
eyes  to  his  real  position  in  life  than  anything  he  had 
experienced,  than  any  sorrow  he  had  suffered.  He 
had  been  in  torment  in  the  past,  but  he  had  refused 
to  see  that  he  was  in  Hades.  Now  it  was  as  though 
he  had  been  led  through  the  streets  of  Hell  by  some 
dark  spirit,  while  in  vain  he  looked  round  for  his  old 

239 


The  Money  Master 


friends  Kant  and  Hegel,  Voltaire  and  Rousseau  and 
Rochefoucauld,  Plato  and  Aristotle. 

While  gazing  at  the  dismal  scene,  however,  and 
unheeding  the  idlers  who  poked  about  among  the 
ruins,  and  watched  him  as  one  who  was  the  centre 
of  a  drama,  he  suddenly  caught  sight  of  the  gold 
Cock  of  Beaugard,  which  had  stood  on  the  top  of 
the  mill,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  ruins. 

Yes,  there  it  was,  the  crested  golden  cock  which 
had  typified  his  own  life,  as  he  went  head  high,  body 
erect,  spurs  giving  warning,  and  a  clarion  in  his 
throat  ready  to  blare  forth  at  any  moment.  There 
was  the  golden  Cock  of  Beaugard  in  the  cinders,  the 
ashes  and  the  dust.  His  chin  dropped  on  his  breast, 
and  a  cloud  like  a  fog  on  the  coast  of  Gaspe  settled 
round  him.  Yet  even  as  his  head  drooped,  some- 
thing else  happened — one  of  those  trivial  things 
which  yet  may  be  the  pivot  of  great  things.  A  cock 
crowed — almost  in  his  very  ear,  it  seemed.  He 
lifted  his  head  quickly,  and  a  superstitious  look 
flashed  into  his  face.  His  eyes  fastened  on  the  bur- 
nished head  of  the  Cock  among  the  ruins.  To  his 
excited  imagination  it  was  as  though  the  ancient 
symbol  of  the  Barbilles  had  spoken  to  him  in  its  own 
language  of  good  cheer  and  defiance.  Yes,  there  it 
was,  half  covered  by  the  ruins,  but  its  head  was 
erect  in  the  midst  of  fire  and  disaster.  Brought  low, 
it  was  still  alert  above  the  wreckage.  The  child,  the 
dreamer,  the  optimist,  the  egoist,  and  the  man  alive 
in  Jean  Jacques  sprang  into  vigour  again.  It  was 
as  though  the  Cock  of  Beaugard  had  really  sum- 
moned him  to  action,  and  the  crowing  had  not  been 

240 


AT    THE    SIGHT    OF    THE    COCK    OF    REAUGARD,    UPRIGHT    IN    THE    RUINS, 

JEAN  JACQUES'  HEAD  WENT  rp,  TOO.     "  i  WILL  BUILD  THE  MILL 

AGAIN  " 


His  greatest  asset 


that  of  a  barnyard  bantam  not  a  hundred  feet  away 
from  him.     Jean  Jacques'  head  went  up  too. 

"Me — I  am  what  I  always  was,  nothing  can  change 
me,"  he  exclaimed  defiantly.  "I  will  sell  the  Bar- 
bille  Farm  and  build  the  mill  again." 

So  it  was  that  by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  because 
the  Big  Financier  had  more  heart  than  he  even 
acknowledged  to  his  own  wife,  Jean  Jacques  did  sell 
the  Barbille  Farm,  and  got  in  cash — in  good  hard 
cash — eight  thousand  dollars  after  the  mortgage 
was  paid.  M.  Mornay  was  even  willing  to  take  the 
inadequate  indemnity  of  the  insurance  policy  on  the 
mill,  and  lose  the  rest,  in  order  that  Jean  Jacques 
should  have  the  eight  thousand  dollars  to  rebuild. 
This  he  did  because  Jean  Jacques  showed  such  amaz- 
ing courage  after  the  burning  of  the  mill,  and  spread 
himself  out  in  a  greater  activity  than  his  career 
had  yet  shown.  He  shaved  through  this  financial 
crisis,  in  spite  of  the  blow  he  had  received  by  the 
loss  of  his  lawsuits,  the  flitting  of  his  cousin,  Auguste 
Charron,  and  the  farm  debts  of  this  same  cousin. 
It  all  meant  a  series  of  manipulations  made  possible 
by  the  apparent  confidence  reposed  in  him  by  M. 
Mornay. 

On  the  day  he  sold  his  farm  he  was  by  no  means 
out  of  danger  of  absolute  insolvency — he  was  in 
fact  ruined;  but  he  was  not  yet  the  victim  of  those 
processes  which  would  make  him  legally  insolvent. 
The  vultures  were  hovering,  but  they  had  not  yet 
swooped,  and  there  was  the  Manor  saw-mill  going 
night  and  day;  for  by  the  strangest  good  luck  Jean 
16  241 


The  Money  Master 


Jacques  received  an  order  for  M.  Mornay's  new  rail- 
way (Judge  Carcasson  was  behind  that)  which  would 
keep  his  saw-mill  working  twenty-four  hours  in  the 
day  for  six  months. 

"I  like  his  pluck,  but  still,  ten  to  one,  he  loses," 
remarked  M.  Mornay  to  Judge  Carcasson.  "He  is 
an  unlucky  man,  and  I  agree  with  Napoleon  that 
you  oughtn't  to  be  partner  with  an  unlucky  man." 

"Yet  you  have  had  to  do  with  Monsieur  Jean 
Jacques,"  responded  the  aged  Judge. 

M.  Mornay  nodded  indulgently. 

"Yes,  without  risk,  up  to  the  burning  of  the  mill. 
Now  I  take  my  chances,  simply  because  I'm  a  fool 
too,  in  spite  of  all  the  wisdom  I  see  in  history  and 
in  life's  experiences.  I  ought  to  have  closed  him 
up,  but  I've  let  him  go  on,  you  see." 

"You  will  not  regret  it,"  remarked  the  Judge. 
"He  really  is  worth  it." 

"But  I  think  I  will  regret  it  financially.  I  think 
that  this  is  the  last  flare  of  the  ambition  and  energy 
of  your  Jean  Jacques.  That  often  happens — a  man 
summons  up  all  his  reserves  for  one  last  effort.  It's 
partly  pride,  partly  the  undefeated  thing  in  him, 
partly  the  gambling  spirit  which  seizes  men  when 
nothing  is  left  but  one  great  spectacular  success  or 
else  be  blotted  out.  That's  the  case  with  your  phi- 
losopher; and  I'm  not  sure  that  I  won't  lose  twenty 
thousand  dollars  by  him  yet." 

"You've  lost  more  with  less  justification,"  retorted 
the  Judge,  who,  in  his  ninetieth  year,  was  still  as 
alive  as  his  friend  at  sixty. 

M.  Mornay  waved  a  hand  in  acknowledgment,  and 

242 


His  greatest  asset 


rolled  his  cigar  from  corner  to  corner  of  his  mouth. 
"Oh,  I've  lost  a  lot  more  in  my  time,  Judge,  but 
with  a  squint  in  my  eye!  But  I'm  doing  this  with 
no  astigmatism.  I've  got  the  focus." 

The  aged  Judge  gave  a  conciliatory  murmur — he 
had  a  fine  persuasive  voice.  "You  would  never 
be  sorry  for  what  you  have  done  if  you  had  known 
his  daughter — his  Zoe.  It's  the  thought  of  her  that 
keeps  him  going.  He  wants  the  place  to  be  just  as 
she  left  it  when  she  comes  back." 

"Well,  well,  let's  hope  it  will.  I'm  giving  him  a 
chance,"  replied  M.  Mornay  with  his  wineglass 
raised.  "He's  got  eight  thousand  dollars  in  cash 
to  build  his  mill  again;  and  I  hope  he'll  keep  a  tight 
hand  on  it  till  the  mill  is  up." 

Keep  a  tight  hand  on  it? 

That  is  what  Jean  Jacques  meant  to  do;  but  if  a 
man  wants  to  keep  a  tight  hand  on  money  he  should 
not  carry  it  about  in  his  pocket  in  cold,  hard  cash. 
It  was  a  foolish  whim  of  Jean  Jacques  that  he  must 
have  the  eight  thousand  dollars  in  cash — in  hundred- 
dollar  bills — and  not  in  the  form  of  a  cheque;  but 
there  was  something  childlike  in  him.  When,  as  he 
thought,  he  had  saved  himself  from  complete  ruin, 
he  wanted  to  keep  and  gloat  over  the  trophy  of 
victory,  and  his  trophy  was  the  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars got  from  the  Barbille  Farm.  He  would  have  to 
pay  out  two  thousand  dollars  in  cash  to  the  con- 
tractors for  the  rebuilding  of  the  mill  at  once, — they 
were  more  than  usually  cautious — but  he  would  have 
six  thousand  left,  which  he  would  put  in  the  bank 

243 


The  Money  Master 


after  he  had  let  people  see  that  he  was  well  fortified 
with  cash. 

The  child  in  him  liked  the  idea  of  pulling  out  of 
his  pocket  a  few  thousand  dollars  in  hundred-dollar 
bills.  He  had  always  carried  a  good  deal  of  money 
loose  in  his  pocket,  and  now  that  his  resources  were 
so  limited  he  would  still  make  a  gallant  show.  After 
a  week  or  two  he  would  deposit  six  thousand  dol- 
lars in  the  bank ;  but  he  was  so  eager  to  begin  build- 
ing the  mill,  that  he  paid  over  the  stipulated  two 
thousand  dollars  to  the  contractors  on  the  very  day 
he  received  the  eight  thousand.  A  few  days  later 
the  remaining  six  thousand  were  housed  in  a  cup- 
board with  an  iron  door  in  the  wall  of  his  office  at 
the  Manor  Cartier. 

"There,  that  will  keep  me  in  heart  and  promise," 
said  Jean  Jacques  as  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

JEAN  JACQUES  HAS  AN  OFFER 

'"PHE  day  after  Jean  Jacques  had  got  a  new  lease 
A  of  life  and  become  his  own  banker,  he  treated 
himself  to  one  of  those  interludes  of  pleasure  from 
which  he  had  emerged  in  the  past  like  a  hermit  from 
his  cave.  He  sat  on  the  hill  above  his  lime-kilns, 
reading  the  little  hand-book  of  philosophy  which  had 
played  so  big  a  part  in  his  life.  Whatever  else  had 
disturbed  his  mind  and  diverted  him  from  his  course, 
nothing  had  weaned  him  from  this  obsession.  He 
still  interlarded  all  his  conversation  with  quota- 
tions from  brilliant  poseurs  like  Chateaubriand  and 
Rochefoucauld,  and  from  missionaries  of  thought 
like  Hume  and  Hegel. 

His  real  joy,  however,  was  in  withdrawing  for  what 
might  be  called  a  stance  of  meditation  from  the 
world's  business.  Some  men  make  celebration  in 
wine,  sport  and  adventure;  but  Jean  Jacques  made 
it  in  flooding  his  mind  with  streams  of  human  thought 
which  often  tried  to  run  uphill,  which  were  fre- 
quently choked  with  weeds,  but  still  were  like  the 
pool  of  Siloam  to  his  vain  mind.  They  bathed  that 
vain  mind  in  the  illusion  that  it  could  see  into  the 
secret  springs  of  experience. 

245 


The  Money  Master 


So,  on  as  bright  a  day  as  ever  the  New  World 
offered,  Jean  Jacques  sat  reciting  to  himself  a  spec- 
tacular bit  of  logic  from  one  of  his  idols,  wedged 
between  a  piece  of  Aristotle  quartz  and  Plato  mar- 
ble. The  sound  of  it  was  good  in  his  ears.  He 
mouthed  it  as  greedily  and  happily  as  though  he 
was  not  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  volcano  instead  of 
the  moss-grown  limestone  on  a  hill  above  his  own 
manor. 

"The  course  of  events  in  the  life  of  a  man,  whatever 
their  gravity  or  levity,  are  only  to  be  valued  and  measured 
by  the  value  and  measure  of  his  own  soul.  Thus,  what 
in  its  own  intrinsic  origin  and  material  should  in  all 
outer  reason  be  a  tragedy,  does  not  of  itself  shake  the 
foundations  or  make  a  fissure  in  the  superstructure. 
Again " 

Thus  his  oracle,  but  Jean  Jacques'  voice  suddenly 
died  down,  for,  as  he  sat  there,  the  face  of  a  woman 
made  a  vivid  call  of  recognition.  He  slowly  awak- 
ened from  his  self-hypnotism,  to  hear  a  woman 
speaking  to  him ;  to  see  two  dark  eyes  looking  at  him 
from  under  heavy  black  brows  with  bright,  intent 
friendliness. 

"They  said  at  the  Manor  you  had  come  this  way, 
so  I  thought  I'd  not  have  my  drive  for  nothing,  and 
here  I  am.  I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you, 
M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques." 

It  was  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette.  She  looked 
very  fresh  and  friendly  indeed,  and  she  was  the  very 
acme  of  neatness.  If  she  was  not  handsome,  she 
certainly  had  a  true  and  sweet  comeliness  of  her 
own,  due  to  the  deep  rose-colour  of  her  cheeks,  the 

246 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


ivory  whiteness  round  the  lustrous  brown  eyes,  the 
regular  shining  teeth  which  showed  so  much  when 
she  smiled,  and  the  look  half  laughing,  half  sentimen- 
tal which  dominated  all. 

Before  she  had  finished  speaking  Jean  Jacques 
was  on  his  feet  with  his  hat  off.  Somehow  she 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  that  abstraction,  that  intoxi- 
cation, in  which  he  had  just  been  drowning  his 
accumulated  anxieties.  Not  that  Virginie  Poucette 
was  logical  or  philosophical,  or  a  child  of  thought,  for 
she  was  wholly  the  opposite — practical,  sensuous, 
emotional,  a  child  of  nature  and  of  Eve.  But  neither 
was  Jean  Jacques  a  real  child  of  thought,  though  he 
made  unconscious  pretence  of  it.  He  also  was  a  child 
of  nature — and  Adam.  He  thought  he  had  the  cour- 
age of  his  convictions,  but  it  was  only  the  courage 
of  his  emotions.  His  philosophy  was  but  the  bent 
or  inclination  of  a  mind  with  a  capacity  to  feel  things 
rather  than  to  think  them.  He  had  feeling,  the  first 
essential  of  the  philosopher,  but  there  he  stayed, 
an  undeveloped  chrysalis. 

His  look  was  abstracted  still  as  he  took  the  hand 
of  the  widow  of  Palass  Poucette;  but  he  spoke 
cheerfully. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure,  madame,  to  welcome  you  among 
my  friends,"  he  said. 

He  made  a  little  flourish  with  the  book  which  had 
so  long  been  his  bosom  friend,  and  added:  "But  I 
hope  you  are  in  no  trouble  that  you  come  to  me — 
so  many  come  to  me  in  their  troubles,"  he  continued 
with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"Come  to  you — why,  you  have  enough  troubles 
247 


The  Money  Master 


of  your  own!"  she  made  answer.  "It's  because  you 
have  your  own  troubles  that  I'm  here." 

"Why  you  are  here,"  he  remarked  vaguely. 

There  was  something  very  direct  and  childlike  in 
Virginie  Poucette.  She  could  not  pretend ;  she  wore 
her  heart  on  her  sleeve.  She  travelled  a  long  dis- 
tance in  a  little  while. 

"I've  got  no  trouble  myself,"  she  responded. 
"But,  yes,  I  have,"  she  added.  "I've  got  one 
trouble — it's  yours.  It's  that  you've  been  having 
hard  times — the  flour-mill,  your  cousin  Auguste 
Charron,  the  lawsuits  and  all  the  rest.  They 
say  at  Vilray  that  you  have  all  you  can  do  to  keep 
out  of  the  Bankruptcy  Court,  and  that— 

Jean  Jacques  started,  flushed,  and  seemed  about 
to  get  angry;  but  she  put  things  right  at  once. 

"People  talk  more  than  they  know,  but  there's 
always  some  fire  where  there's  smoke,"  she  hastened 
to  explain.  "Besides,  your  father-in-law  babbles 
more  than  is  good  for  him  or  for  you.  I  thought  at 
first  that  M.  Dolores  was  a  first-class  kind  of  man, 
that  he  had  had  hard  times  too,  and  I  let  him  come 
and  see  me;  but  I  found  him  out,  and  that  was  the 
end  of  it,  you  may  be  sure.  If  you  like  him,  I  don't 
want  to  say  anything  more,  but  I'm  sure  that  he's 
no  real  friend  to  you — or  to  anybody.  If  that  man 
went  to  confession — but  there,  that's  not  what  I've 
come  for.  I've  come  to  say  to  you  that  I  never  felt 
so  sorry  for  anyone  in  my  life  as  I  do  for  you.  I 
cried  all  night  after  your  beautiful  mill  was  burned 
down.  You  were  coming  to  see  me  next  day — you 
remember  what  you  said  in  M,  Fille's  office — but 

248 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


of  course  you  couldn't.  Of  course,  there  was  no 
reason  why  you  should  come  to  see  me  really — I've 
only  got  two  hundred  acres  and  the  house.  It's  a 
good  house,  though — Palass  saw  to  that — and  it's 
insured;  but  still  I  know  you'd  have  come  just  the 
same  if  I'd  had  only  two  acres.  I  know.  There's 
hosts  of  people  you've  been  good  to  here,  and  they're 
sorry  for  you;  and  I'm  sorrier  than  any,  for  I'm 
alone,  and  you're  alone,  too,  except  for  the  old 
Dolores,  and  he's  no  good  to  either  of  us — mark  my 
words,  no  good  to  you!  I'm  sorry  for  you,  M'sieu' 
Jean  Jacques,  and  I've  come  to  say  that  I'm  ready 
to  lend  you  two  thousand  dollars,  if  that's  any  help. 
I  could  make  it  more  if  I  had  time;  but  sometimes 
money  on  the  spot  is  worth  a  lot  more  than  what's 
just  crawling  to  you — snailing  along  while  you  eat 
your  heart  out.  Two  thousand  dollars  is  two  thou- 
sand dollars — I  know  what  it's  worth  to  me,  though 
it  mayn't  be  much  to  you;  but  I  didn't  earn  it.  It 
belonged  to  a  first-class  man,  and  he  worked  for  it, 
and  he  died  and  left  it  to  me.  It's  not  come  easy,  go 
easy  with  me.  I  like  to  feel  I've  got  two  thousand 
cash  without  having  to  mortgage  for  it.  But  it 
belonged  to  a  number-one  man,  a  man  of  brains — I've 
got  no  brains,  only  some  sense — and  I  want  another 
good  man  to  use  it  and  make  the  world  easier  for 
himself." 

It  was  a  long  speech,  and  she  delivered  it  in  little 
gasps  of  oratory  which  were  brightened  by  her 
wonderfully  kind  smile  and  the  heart — not  to  say 
sentiment — which  showed  in  her  face.  The  senti- 
ment, however,  did  not  prejudice  Jean  Jacques 

249 


The  Money  Master 


against  her,  for  he  was  a  sentimentalist  himself. 
His  feelings  were  very  quick,  and  before  she  had 
spoken  fifty  words  the  underglow  of  his  eyes  was 
flooded  by  something  which  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  tears.  It  was,  however,  only  the  moisture 
of  gratitude  and  the  soul's  good  feeling. 

"Well  there,  well  there,"  he  said  when  she  had 
finished,  "I've  never  had  anything  like  this  in  my 
life  before.  It's  the  biggest  thing  in  the  art  of  being 
a  neighbour  I've  ever  seen.  You've  only  been  in  the 
parish  three  years,  and  yet  you've  shown  me  a  con- 
fidence immense,  inspiring!  It  is  as  the  Greek 
philosopher  said,  'To  conceive  the  human  mind 
aright  is  the  greatest  gift  from  the  gods.'  And  to 
you,  who  never  read  a  line  of  philosophy,  without 
doubt,  you  have  done  the  thing  that  is  greatest. 
It  says,  'I  teach  neighbourliness  and  life's  exchange.' 
Madame,  your  house  ought  to  be  called  Neighbour- 
hood House.  It  is  the  epitome  of  the  spirit,  it  is  the 
shrine  of — 

He  was  working  himself  up  to  a  point  where  he 
could  forget  all  the  things  that  trouble  humanity, 
in  the  inebriation  of  an  idealistic  soul  which  had  a 
casing  of  passion,  but  the  passion  of  the  mind  and 
not  of  the  body ;  for  Jean  Jacques  had  not  a  sensual 
drift  in  his  organism.  If  there  had  been  a  sensual 
drift,  probably  Carmen  would  still  have  been  the 
lady  of  his  manor,  and  he  would  still  have  been  a 
magnate  and  not  a  potential  bankrupt;  for  in  her 
way  Carmen  had  been  a  kind  of  balance  to  his 
judgment  in  the  business  of  life,  in  spite  of  her  own 
material  and  (at  the  very  last)  sensual  strain.  It 

250 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


was  a  godsend  to  Jean  Jacques  to  have  such  an 
inspiration  as  Virginie  Poucette  had  given  him. 
He  could  not  in  these  days,  somehow,  get  the  fires 
of  his  soul  lighted,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  in  the  old 
times,  and  he  loved  talking — how  he  loved  talking 
of  great  things !  He  was  really  going  hard,  galloping 
strong,  when  Virginie  interrupted  him,  first  by  an 
exclamation,  then,  as  insistently  he  repeated  the 
words,  "It  is  the  epitome  of  the  spirit,  the  shrine 

of " 

She  put  out  a  hand,  interrupting  him,  and  said: 
"Yes,  yes,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques,  that's  as  good  as 
Moliere,  I  s'pose,  or  the  Archbishop  at  Quebec,  but 
are  you  going  to  take  it,  the  two  thousand  dollars? 
I  made  a  long  speech,  I  know,  but  that  was  to  tell 
you  why  I  come  with  the  money" — she  drew  out  a 
pocket-book — "with  the  order  on  my  lawyer  to 
hand  the  cash  over  to  you.  As  a  woman  I  had  to 
explain  to  you,  there  being  lots  of  ideas  about  what 
a  woman  should  do  and  what  she  shouldn't  do;  but 
there's  nothing  at  all  for  you  to  explain,  and  Mere 
Langlois  and  a  lot  of  others  would  think  I'm  vain 
enough  now  without  your  compliments.  I'm  a 
neighbour  if  you  like,  and  I  offer  you  a  loan.  Will 
you  take  it — that's  all?" 

He  held  out  his  hand  in  silence  and  took  the  paper 
from  her.  Putting  his  head  a  little  on  one  side,  he 
read  it.  At  first  he  seemed  hardly  to  get  the  formal 
language  clear  in  his  mind,  however,  or  maybe  his 
mind  was  still  away  in  that  abstraction  into  which 
he  had  whisked  it  when  he  began  his  reply  to  her 
fine  offer;  but  he  read  it  out  aloud,  first  quickly, 

251 


The  Money  Master 


then  very  slowly,  and  he  looked  at  the  signature 
with  a  deeply  meditative  air. 

"Virginie  Poucette — that's  a  good  name,"  he 
remarked;  "and  also  good  for  two  thousand  dol- 
lars!" He  paused  to  smile  contentedly  over  his  own 
joke.  "And  good  for  a  great  deal  more  than  that 
too,"  he  added  with  a  nod. 

"Yes,  ten  times  as  much  as  that,"  she  responded 
quickly,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his  face.  She  scarcely 
knew  herself  what  she  was  thinking  when  she  said 
it;  but  most  people  who  read  this  history  will  think 
she  was  hinting  that  her  assets  might  be  united  with 
his,  and  so  enable  him  to  wipe  out  his  liabilities  and 
do  a  good  deal  more  besides.  Yet,  how  could  that 
be,  since  Carmen  Dolores  was  still  his  wife  if  she 
was  alive;  and  also  they  both  were  Catholics,  and 
Catholics  did  not  recognize  divorce ! 

Truth  is,  Virginie  Poucette's  mind  did  not  define 
her  feelings  at  all  clearly,  or  express  exactly  what  she 
wanted.  Her  actions  said  one  thing  certainly; 
but  if  the  question  had  been  put  to  her,  whether 
she  was  doing  this  thing  because  of  a  wish  to  take 
the  place  of  Carmen  Dolores  in  Jean  Jacques'  life, 
she  would  have  said  no  at  once.  She  had  not  come 
to  that — yet.  She  was  simply  moved  by  a  sentiment 
of  pity  for  Jean  Jacques,  and  as  she  had  no  child, 
or  husband,  or  sister,  or  brother,  or  father,  or 
mother,  but  only  relatives  who  tried  to  impose 
upon  her,  she  needed  an  objective  for  the  emotions 
of  her  nature,  for  the  overflow  of  her  unused  affec- 
tion and  her  unsatisfied  maternal  spirit.  Here, 
then,  was  the  most  obvious  opportunity — a  man 

252 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


in  trouble  who  had  not  deserved  the  bitter  bad 
luck  which  had  come  to  him.  Even  old  Mere  Lan- 
glois  in  the  market-place  at  Vilray  had  admitted 
that,  and  had  said  the  same  later  on  in  Virginie's 
home. 

For  an  instant  Jean  Jacques  was  fascinated  by  the 
sudden  prospect  which  opened  out  before  him.  If 
he  asked  her,  this  woman  would  probably  loan  him 
five  thousand  dollars — and  she  had  mentioned 
nothing  about  security ! 

"What  security  do  you  want?"  he  asked  in  a 
husky  voice. 

"Security?  I  don't  understand  about  that,"  she 
replied.  "I'd  not  offer  you  the  money  if  I  didn't 
think  you  were  an  honest  man,  and  an  honest  man 
would  pay  me  back.  A  dishonest  man  wouldn't 
pay  me  back,  security  or  no  security." 

"He'd  have  to  pay  you  back  if  the  security  was 
right  to  start  with,"  Jean  Jacques  insisted.  "But 
you  don't  want  security,  because  you  think  I'm 
an  honest  man!  Well,  for  sure  you're  right.  I  am 
honest.  I  never  took  a  cent  that  wasn't  mine;  but 
that's  not  everything.  If  you  lend  you  ought  to 
have  security.  I've  lost  a  good  deal  from  not  hav- 
ing enough  security  at  the  start.  You  are  willing 
to  lend  me  money  without  security — that's  enough 
to  make  me  feel  thirty  again,  and  I'm  fifty — I'm 
fifty,"  he  added,  as  though  with  an  attempt  to  show 
her  that  she  could  not  think  of  him  in  any  emotional 
way;  though  the  day  when  his  flour-mill  was  burned 
he  had  felt  the  touch  of  her  fingers  comforting  and 
thrilling. 

253 


The  Money  Master 


"You  think  Jean  Jacques  Barbille's  word  as  good 
as  his  bond?"  he  continued.  "So  it  is;  but  I'm 
going  to  pull  this  thing  through  alone.  That's 
what  I  said  to  you  and  Maitre  Fille  at  his  office. 
I  meant  it  too — help  of  God,  it  is  the  truth!" 

He  had  forgotten  that  if  M.  Mornay  had  not 
made  it  easy  for  him,  and  had  not  refrained  from 
insisting  on  his  pound  of  flesh,  he  would  now  be 
insolvent  and  with  no  roof  over  him.  Like  many 
another  man  Jean  Jacques  was  the  occasional  slave 
of  formula,  and  also  the  victim  of  phases  of  his  own 
temperament.  In  truth  he  had  not  realized  how 
big  a  thing  M.  Mornay  had  done  for  him.  He  had 
accepted  the  chance  given  him  as  the  tribute  to  his 
own  courage  and  enterprise  and  integrity,  and  as 
though  it  was  to  the  advantage  of  his  greatest 
creditor  to  give  him  another  start ;  though  in  reality 
it  had  made  no  difference  to  the  Big  financier, 
who  knew  his  man  and,  with  wide-open  eyes,  did 
what  he  had  done. 

Virginie  was  not  subtle.  She  did  not  understand, 
was  never  satisfied  with  allusions,  and  she  had  no 
gift  for  catching  the  drift  of  things.  She  could  en- 
dure no  perad venture  in  her  conversation.  She 
wanted  plain  speaking  and  to  be  literally  sure. 

"Are  you  going  to  take  it?"   she  asked  abruptly. 

He  could  not  bear  to  be  checked  in  his  course. 
He  waved  a  hand  and  smiled  at  her.  Then  his  eyes 
seemed  to  travel  away  into  the  distance,  the  look 
of  the  dreamer  in  them;  but  behind  all  was  that 
strange,  ruddy  underglow  of  revelation  which  kept 
emerging  from  shadows,  retreating  and  emerging, 

254 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


yet  always  there  now,  in  much  or  in  little,  since  the 
burning  of  the  mill. 

"I've  lent  a  good  deal  of  money  without  security 
in  my  time,"  he  reflected,  "but  the  only  people  who 
ever  paid  me  back  were  a  deaf  and  dumb  man  and  a 
fly-away — a  woman  that  was  tired  of  selling  herself, 
and  started  straight  and  right  with  the  money  I 
lent  her.  She  had  been  the  wife  of  a  man  who 
studied  with  me  at  Laval.  She  paid  me  back  every 
penny,  too,  year  by  year  for  five  years.  The  rest 
I  lent  money  to  never  paid;  but  they  paid,  the 
dummy  and  the  harlot  that  was,  they  paid!  But 
they  paid  for  the  rest  also!  If  I  had  refused  these 
two  because  of  the  others,  I'd  not  be  fit  to  visit  at 
Neighbourhood  House  where  Virginie  Poucette 
lives." 

He  looked  closely  at  the  order  she  had  given  him 
again,  as  though  to  let  it  sink  in  his  mind  and  be 
registered  for  ever.  "I'm  going  to  do  without  any 
further  use  of  your  two  thousand  dollars,"  he  con- 
tinued cheerfully.  "It  has  done  its  work.  You've 
lent  it  to  me,  I've  used  it " — he  put  the  hand  holding 
it  on  his  breast — "and  I'm  paying  it  back  to  you, 
but  without  interest."  He  gave  the  order  to  her. 

"I  don't  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said  helplessly, 
and  she  looked  at  the  paper,  as  though  it  had  under- 
gone some  change  while  it  was  in  his  hand. 

"That  you  would  lend  it  me  is  worth  ten  times 
two  thousand  to  me,  Virginie  Poucette,"  he  ex- 
plained. "It  gives  me,  not  a  kick  from  behind — 
I've  not  had  much  else  lately — but  it  holds  a  light 
in  front  of  me.  It  calls  me.  It  says,  'March  on, 

255 


The  Money  Master 


Jean  Jacques — climb  the  mountain.'  It  summons 
me  to  dispose  my  forces  for  the  campaign  which 
will  restore  the  Manor  Cartier  to  what  it  has  ever 
been  since  the  days  of  the  Baron  of  Beaugard.  It 
quickens  the  blood  at  my  heart.  It  restores — 

Virginie  would  not  allow  him  to  go  on.  "You 
won't  let  me  help  you?  Suppose  I  do  lose  the  money 
—I  didn't  earn  it;  it  was  earned  by  Palass  Poucette, 
and  he'd  understand,  if  he  knew.  I  can  live  with- 
out the  money,  if  I  have  to,  but  you  would  pay  it 
back,  I  know.  You  oughtn't  to  take  any  extra 
risks.  If  your  daughter  should  come  back  and  not 
find  you  here,  if  she  returned  to  the  Manor  Cartier, 
and " 

He  made  an  insistent  gesture.  "Hush!  Be  still, 
my  friend — as  good  a  friend  as  a  man  could  have. 
If  my  Zoe  came  back  I'd  like  to  feel — I'd  like  to 
feel  that  I  had  saved  things  alone;  that  no  woman's 
money  made  me  safe.  If  Zoe  or  if 

He  was  going  to  say,  "If  Carmen  came  back,"  for 
his  mind  was  moving  in  past  scenes;  but  he  stopped 
short  and  looked  around  helplessly.  Then  presently, 
as  though  by  an  effort,  he  added  with  a  bravura  note 
in  his  voice: 

"The  world  has  been  full  of  trouble  for  a  long  time, 
but  there  have  always  been  men  to  say  to  trouble, 
'I  am  master,  I  have  the  mind  to  get  above  it  all.' 
Well,  I  am  one  of  them." 

There  was  no  tone  of  vanity  or  bombast  in  his 
voice  as  he  said  this,  and  in  his  eyes  that  new  under- 
glow  deepened  and  shone.  Perhaps  in  this  instant 
he  saw  more  of  his  future  than  he  would  speak  of  to 

256 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


anyone  on  earth.  Perhaps  prevision  was  given  him, 
and  it  was  as  the  Big  Financier  had  said  to  Maitre 
Fille,  that  his  philosophy  was  now,  at  the  last,  to  be  of 
use  to  him.  When  his  wife  had  betrayed  him,  and 
his  wife  and  child  had  left  him,  he  had  said,  "Moi 
— je  suis  philosopher'  but  he  was  a  man  of  wealth 
in  those  days,  and  money  soothes  hurts  of  that  kind 
in  rare  degree.  Would  he  still  say,  whatever  was 
yet  to  come,  that  he  was  a  philosopher? 

"Well,  I've  done  what  I  thought  would  help  you, 
and  I  can't  say  more  than  that,"  Virginie  remarked 
with  a  sigh,  and  there  was  despondency  in  her  eyes. 

Her  face  became  flushed,  her  bosom  showed  agi- 
tation; she  looked  at  him  as  she  had  done  in  Maitre 
Fille's  office,  and  a  wave  of  feeling  passed  over  him 
now,  as  it  did  then,  and  he  remembered,  in  response 
to  her  look,  the  thrill  of  his  fingers  in  her  palm.  His 
face  now  flushed  also,  and  he  had  an  impulse  to  ask 
her  to  sit  down  beside  him.  He  put  it  away  from 
him,  however,  for  the  present,  at  any  rate — who 
could  tell  what  to-morrow  might  bring  forth! — and 
then  he  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  His  voice  shook  a 
little  when  he  spoke;  but  it  cleared,  and  began  to 
ring,  before  he  had  said  a  dozen  words. 

"I'll  never  forget  what  you've  said  and  done  this 
morning,  Virginie  Poucette,"  he  declared;  "and  if  I 
break  the  back  of  the  trouble  that's  in  my  way,  and 
come  out  cock-o'-the-walk  again" — the  gold  Cock 
of  Beaugard  in  the  ruins  near  and  the  clarion  of  the 
bantam  of  his  barnyard  were  in  his  mind  and  ears — 
"it  '11  be  partly  because  of  you.  I  hug  that  thought 
to  me." 

17  257 


The  Money  Master 


"I  could  do  a  good  deal  more  than  that,"  she  ven- 
tured, with  a  tremulous  voice,  and  then  she  took  her 
warm  hand  from  his  nervous  grasp,  and  turned  sharp- 
ly into  the  path  which  led  back  towards  the  Manor. 
She  did  not  turn  around,  and  she  walked  quickly 
away. 

There  was  confusion  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  mind. 
It  would  take  some  time  to  make  the  confusion  into 
order,  and  she  was  now  hot,  now  cold,  in  all  her 
frame,  when  at  last  she  climbed  into  her  wagon. 

This  physical  unrest  imparted  itself  to  all  she  did 
that  day.  First  her  horses  were  driven  almost  at  a 
gallop;  then  they  were  held  down  to  a  slow  walk; 
then  they  were  stopped  altogether,  and  she  sat  in 
the  shade  of  the  trees  on  the  road  to  her  home,  pon- 
dering— whispering  to  herself  and  pondering. 

As  her  horses  were  at  a  standstill  she  saw  a  wagon 
approaching.  Instantly  she  touched  her  pair  with 
the  whip,  and  moved  on.  Before  the  approaching 
wagon  came  alongside,  she  knew  from  the  grey  and 
the  dark-brown  horses  who  was  driving  them,  and 
she  made  a  strong  effort  for  composure.  She  suc- 
ceeded indifferently,  but  her  friend,  M&re  Langlois, 
did  not  notice  this  fact  as  her  wagon  drew  near. 
There  was  excitement  in  M£re  Langlois'  face. 

"There's  been  a  shindy  at  'The  Red  Eagle'  tav- 
ern," she  said.  "That  father-in-law  of  M'sieu'  Jean 
Jacques  and  Rocque  Valescure,  the  landlord,  they 
got  at  each  other's  throats.  Dolores  hit  Valescure 
on  the  head  with  a  bottle." 

"He  didn't  kill  Valescure,  did  he?" 

"Not  that — no.  But  Valescure  is  hurt  bad — as 

258 


Jean  Jacques  has  an  offer 


bad.  It  was  six  to  one  and  half  a  dozen  to  the  other 
— both  no  good  at  all.  But  of  course  they'll  arrest 
the  old  man — your  great  friend !  He'll  not  give  you 
any  more  fur-robes,  that's  sure.  He  got  away  from 
the  tavern,  though,  and  he's  hiding  somewhere. 
M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  can't  protect  him  now;  he 
isn't  what  he  once  was  in  the  parish.  He's  done  for, 
and  old  Dolores  will  have  to  go  to  trial.  They'll 
make  it  hot  for  him  when  they  catch  him.  No  more 
fur-robes  from  your  Spanish  friend,  Virginie!  You'll 
have  to  look  somewhere  else  for  your  beaux,  though 
to  be  sure  there  are  enough  that  'd  be  glad  to  get 
you  with  that  farm  of  yours,  and  your  thrifty  ways, 
if  you  keep  your  character." 

Virginie  was  quite  quiet  now.  The  asperity  and 
suggestiveness  of  the  other's  speech  produced  a  cool- 
ing effect  upon  her. 

"Better  hurry,  M&re  Langlois,  or  everybody  won't 
hear  your  story  before  sundown.  If  your  throat 

gets  tired,  there's  Brown's  Bronchial  Troches 

She  pointed  to  an  advertisement  on  the  fence  near 
by.  "M.  Fille's  cook  says  they  cure  a  rasping 
throat." 

With  that  shot,  Virginie  Poucette  whipped  up  her 
horses  and  drove  on.  She  did  not  hear  what  M£re 
Langlois  called  after  her,  for  Me're  Langlois  had  been 
slow  to  recover  from  the  unexpected  violence  dealt 
by  one  whom  she  had  always  bullied. 

"Poor  Jean  Jacques!"  said  Virginie  Poucette  to 
herself  as  her  horses  ate  up  the  ground.  "That's 
another  bit  of  bad  luck.  He'll  not  sleep  to-night. 
Ah,  the  poor  Jean  Jacques — and  all  alone — not  a  hand 

259 


The  Money  Master 


to  hold;  no  one  to  rumple  that  shaggy  head  of  his 
or  pat  him  on  the  back!  His  wife  and  Ma'm'selle 
Zoe,  they  didn't  know  a  good  thing  when  they  had 
it.  No,  he'll  not  sleep  to-night — ah,  my  dear  Jean 
Jacques!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SEBASTIAN  DOLORES  DOES  NOT  SLEEP 

BUT  Jean  Jacques  did  sleep  well  that  night; 
though  it  would  have  been  better  for  him  if  he 
had  not  done  so.  The  contractor's  workmen  had 
arrived  in  the  early  afternoon,  he  had  seen  the  first 
ton  of  debris  removed  from  the  ruins  of  the  historic 
mill,  and  it  was  crowned  by  the  golden  Cock  of 
Beaugard,  all  grimy  with  the  fire,  but  jaunty  as  of 
yore.  The  cheerfulness  of  the  workmen,  who  sang 
gaily  an  old  chanson  of  mill-life  as  they  tugged  at 
the  timbers  and  stones,  gave  a  fillip  to  the  spirits 
of  Jean  Jacques,  to  whom  had  come  a  red-letter 
day. 

Like  Mirza  on  the  high  hill  of  Bagdad  he  had  had 
his  philosophic  meditations;  his  good  talk  with  Vir- 
ginie  Poucette  had  followed;  and  the  woman  of 
her  lingered  in  the  feeling  of  his  hand  all  day,  as 
something  kind  and  homelike  and  true.  Also  in  the 
evening  had  come  M.  Fille,  who  brought  him  a  mes- 
sage from  Judge  Carcasson,  that  he  must  make  the 
world  sing  for  himself  again. 

Contrary  to  what  Mere  Langlois  had  thought,  he 
had  not  been  perturbed  by  the  parish  noise  about 
the  savage  incident  at  "The  Red  Eagle,"  and  the  des- 

261 


The  Money  Master 


perate  affair  which  would  cause  the  arrest  of  his 
father-in-law.  He  was  at  last  well  inclined  to  be 
rid  of  Sebastian  Dolores,  who  had  ceased  to  be  a 
comfort  to  him,  and  who  brought  him  hateful  and 
not  kindly  memories  of  his  lost  women,  and  the  happy 
hours  of  the  past  they  represented. 

M.  Fille  had  come  to  the  Manor  in  much  alarm, 
lest  the  news  of  the  miserable  episode  at  "The  Red 
Eagle"  should  bring  Jean  Jacques  down  again  to  the 
depths.  He  was  infinitely  relieved,  however,  to  find 
that  the  lord  of  the  Manor  Cartier  seemed  only  to 
be  grateful  that  Sebastian  Dolores  did  not  return, 
and  nodded  emphatically  when  M.  Fille  remarked 
that  perhaps  it  would  be  just  as  well  if  he  never 
did  return. 

As  M.  Fille  sat  with  his  host  at  the  table  in  the 
sunset  light,  Jean  Jacques  seemed  quieter  and  stead- 
ier of  body  and  mind  than  he  had  been  for  a  long, 
long  time.  He  even  drank  three  glasses  of  the  cor- 
dial which  Mere  Langlois  had  left  for  him,  with  the 
idea  that  it  might  comfort  him  when  he  got  the  bad 
news  about  Sebastian  Dolores;  and  parting  with  M. 
Fille  at  the  door,  he  waved  a  hand  and  said:  "Well, 
good-night,  master  of  the  laws!  Safe  journey!  I'm 
off  to  bed,  and  I'll  sleep  without  rocking,  that's  very 
sure  and  sweet." 

He  stood  and  waved  his  hand  several  times  to  M. 
Fille— till  he  was  out  of  sight  indeed ;  and  the  Clerk 
of  the  Court  smiled  to  himself  long  afterwards,  re- 
calling Jean  Jacques'  cheerful  face  as  he  had  seen  it 
at  their  parting  in  the  gathering  dusk.  As  for  Jean 
Jacques,  when  he  locked  up  the  house  at  ten  o'clock, 

262 


Sebastian  Dolores  does  not  sleep 

with  Dolores  still  absent,  he  had  the  air  of  a  man 
from  whose  shoulders  great  weights  had  fallen. 

"Now  I've  shut  the  door  on  him,  it  '11  stay  shut," 
he  said  firmly.  "Let  him  go  back  to  work.  He's 
no  good  here  to  me,  to  himself,  or  to  anyone.  And 
that  business  of  the  fur-robe  and  Virginie  Poucette 
—ah,  that!" 

He  shook  his  head  angrily,  then  seeing  the  bottle 
of  cordial  still  uncorked  on  the  sideboard,  he  poured 
some  out  and  drank  it  very  slowly,  till  his  eyes  were 
on  the  ceiling  above  him  and  every  drop  had  gone 
home.  Presently,  with  the  bedroom  lamp  in  his 
hand,  he  went  upstairs,  humming  to  himself  the 
chanson  the  workmen  had  sung  that  afternoon  as 
they  raised  again  the  walls  of  the  mill: 

"Distaff  of  flax  flowing  behind  her 
Margatton  goes  to  the  mill — 

On  the  old  grey  ass  she  goes, 
The  flour  of  love  it  will  blind  her — 
Ah,  the  grist  the  devil  will  grind  her, 
When  Margatton  goes  to  the  mill! 
On  the  old  grey  ass  she  goes, 
And  the  old  grey  ass,  he  knows!" 

He  liked  the  sound  of  his  own  voice  this  night  of 
his  Reconstruction  Period — or  such  it  seemed  to  him ; 
and  he  thought  that  no  one  heard  his  singing  save 
himself.  There,  however,  he  was  mistaken.  Some- 
one was  hidden  in  the  house — in  the  big  kitchen-bunk 
which  served  as  a  bed  or  a  seat,  as  needed.  This 
someone  had  stolen  in  while  Jean  Jacques  and  M. 
Fille  were  at  supper.  His  name  was  Dolores,  and 
he  had  a  horse  just  over  the  hill  near  by,  to  serve 

263 


The  Money  Master 


him  when  his  work  was  done,  and  he  could  get 
away. 

The  constables  of  Vilray  had  twice  visited  the 
Manor  to  arrest  him  that  day,  but  they  had  been 
led  in  another  direction  by  a  clue  which  he  had  pro- 
vided; and  afterwards  in  the  dusk  he  had  doubled 
back  and  hid  himself  under  Jean  Jacques'  roof.  He 
had  very  important  business  at  the  Manor  Cartier. 

Jean  Jacques'  voice  ceased  one  song,  and  then, 
after  a  silence,  it  took  up  another,  not  so  melodious. 
Sebastian  Dolores  had  impatiently  waited  for  this 
later  "musicale"  to  begin — he  had  heard  it  often 
before;  and  when  it  was  at  last  a  regular  succession 
of  nasal  explosions,  he  crawled  out  and  began  to 
do  the  business  which  had  brought  him  to  the  Manor 
Cartier. 

He  did  it  all  alone  and  with  much  skill ;  for  when 
he  was  an  anarchist  in  Spain,  those  long  years  ago, 
he  had  learned  how  to  use  tools  with  expert  under- 
standing. Of  late,  Spain  had  been  much  in  his  mind. 
He  wanted  to  go  back  there.  Nostalgia  had  possessed 
him  ever  since  he  had  come  again  to  the  Manor 
Cartier  after  Zoe  had  left.  He  thought  much  of 
Spain,  and  but  little  of  his  daughter.  Memory  of  her 
was  only  poignant,  in  so  far  as  it  was  associated  with 
the  days  preceding  the  wreck  of  the  Antoine.  He  had 
had  far  more  than  enough  of  the  respectable  working 
life  of  the  New  World ;  but  there  never  was  sufficient 
money  to  take  him  back  to  Europe,  even  were  it  safe 
to  go.  Of  late,  however,  he  felt  sure  that  he  might 
venture,  if  he  could  only  get  cash  for  the  journey. 

264 


Sebastian  Dolores  does  not  sleep 

He  wanted  to  drift  back  to  the  idleness  and  adven- 
ture and  the  "easy  money  "  of  the  old  Anarchist  days 
in  Cadiz  and  Madrid.  He  was  sick  for  the  patio  and 
the  plaza,  for  the  bull-fight,  for  the  siesta  in  the 
sun,  for  the  lazy  glamour  of  the  gardens  and  the  red 
wine  of  Valladolid,  for  the  redolent  cigarette  of  the 
roadside  tavern.  This  cold  iron  land  had  spoiled 
him,  and  he  would  strive  to  get  himself  home  again 
before  it  was  too  late.  In  Spain  there  would  always 
be  some  woman  whom  he  could  cajole;  some  com- 
rade whom  he  could  betray;  some  priest  whom  he 
could  deceive,  whose  pocket  he  could  empty  by  the 
recital  of  his  troubles.  But  if,  peradventure,  he  re- 
turned to  Spain  with  money  to  spare  in  his  pocket, 
how  easy  indeed  it  would  all  be,  and  how  happy  he 
would  find  himself  amid  old  surroundings  and  old 
friends ! 

The  way  had  suddenly  opened  up  to  him  when 
Jean  Jacques  had  brought  home  in  hard  cash,  and 
had  locked  away  in  the  iron-doored  cupboard  in  the 
office-wall,  his  last,  his  cherished,  eight  thousand 
dollars.  Six  thousand  of  that  eight  were  still  left, 
and  it  was  concern  for  this  six  thousand  which  had 
brought  Dolores  to  the  Manor  this  night  when  Jean 
Jacques  snored  so  loudly.  The  events  of  the  day  at 
"The  Red  Eagle"  had  brought  things  to  a  crisis  in 
the  affairs  of  Carmen's  father.  It  was  a  foolish 
business  that  at  the  tavern — so,  at  any  rate,  he 
thought,  when  it  was  all  over,  and  he  was  awake  to 
the  fact  that  he  must  fly  or  go  to  jail.  From  the 
time  he  had,  with  a  bottle  of  gin,  laid  Valescure  low, 
Spain  was  the  word  which  went  ringing  through  his 

265 


The  Money  Master 


head,  and  the  way  to  Spain  was  by  the  Six  Thousand 
Dollar  Route,  the  New  World  terminal  of  which  was 
the  cupboard  in  the  wall  at  the  Manor  Cartier. 

Little  cared  Sebastian  Dolores  that  the  theft  of 
the  money  would  mean  the  end  of  all  things  for 
Jean  Jacques  Barbille — for  his  own  daughter's  hus- 
band. He  was  thinking  of  himself,  as  he  had  always 
done. 

He  worked  for  two  whole  hours  before  he  suc- 
ceeded in  quietly  forcing  open  the  iron  door  in  the 
wall;  but  it  was  done  at  last.  Curiously  enough, 
Jean  Jacques'  snoring  stopped  on  the  instant  that 
Sebastian  Dolores'  fingers  clutched  the  money; 
but  it  began  cheerfully  again  when  the  door  in  the 
wall  closed  once  more. 

Five  minutes  after  Dolores  had  thrust  the  six 
thousand  dollars  into  his  pocket,  his  horse  was 
galloping  away  over  the  hills  towards  the  River  St. 
Lawrence.  If  he  had  luck,  he  would  reach  it  by  the 
morning.  As  it  happened,  he  had  the  luck.  Be- 
hind him,  in  the  Manor  Cartier,  the  man  who  had 
had  no  luck  and  much  philosophy,  snored  on  till 
morning  in  unconscious  content. 

It  was  a  whole  day  before  Jean  Jacques  discovered 
his  loss.  When  he  had  finished  his  lonely  supper  the 
next  evening,  he  went  to  the  cupboard  in  his  office 
to  cheer  himself  with  the  sight  of  the  six  thousand 
dollars.  He  felt  that  he  must  revive  his  spirits. 
They  had  been  drooping  all  day,  he  knew  not 
why. 

When  he  saw  the  empty  pigeon-hole  in  the  cup- 
board, his  sight  swam.  It  was  some  time  before 

266 


Sebastian  Dolores  does  not  sleep 

it  cleared,  but,  when  it  did,  and  he  knew  beyond 
peradventure  the  crushing,  everlasting  truth,  not  a 
sound  escaped  him.  His  heart  stood  still.  His 
face  filled  with  a  panic  confusion.  He  seemed  like 
one  bereft  of  understanding. 


CHAPTER  XX 
"AU  'VOIR,  M'SIEU'  JEAN  JACQUES" 

IT  is  seldom  that  Justice  travels  as  swiftly  as 
Crime,  and  it  is  also  seldom  that  the  luck  is 
more  with  the  law  than  with  the  criminal.  It  took 
the  parish  of  St.  Saviour's  so  long  to  make  up  its 
mind  who  stole  Jean  Jacques'  six  thousand  dollars, 
that  when  the  hounds  got  the  scent  at  last  the  quarry 
had  reached  the  water — in  other  words,  Sebastian 
Dolores  had  achieved  the  St.  Lawrence.  The  crim- 
inal had  had  near  a  day's  start  before  a  telegram 
was  sent  to  the  police  at  Montreal,  Quebec,  and 
other  places  to  look  out  for  the  picaroon  who  had 
left  his  mark  on  the  parish  of  St.  Saviour's.  The 
telegram  would  not  even  then  have  been  sent  had  it 
not  been  for  M.  Fille,  who,  suspecting  Sebastian 
Dolores,  still  refrained  from  instant  action.  This 
he  did  because  he  thought  Jean  Jacques  would  not 
wish  his  beloved  Zoe's  grandfather  sent  to  prison. 
But  when  other  people  at  last  declared  that  it  must 
have  been  Dolores,  M.  Fille  insisted  on  telegrams 
being  sent  by  the  magistrate  at  Vilray  without 
Jean  Jacques*  consent.  He  had  even  urged  the 
magistrate  to  "rush"  the  wire,  because  it  came  home 
to  him  with  stunning  force  that,  if  the  money  was 

268 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

not  recovered,  Jean  Jacques  would  be  a  beggar. 
It  was  better  to  jail  the  father-in-law,  than  for  the 
little  money-master  to  take  to  the  road  a  pauper, 
or  stay  on  at  St.  Saviour's  as  an  underling  where  he 
had  been  overlord. 

As  for  Jean  Jacques,  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  knew 
who  had  robbed  him.  He  realized  that  it  was  one 
of  the  radii  of  the  comedy-tragedy  which  began  on 
the  Antoine,  so  many  years  before;  and  it  had 
settled  in  his  mind  at  last  that  Sebastian  Dolores 
was  but  part  of  the  dark  machinery  of  fate,  and  that 
what  was  now  had  to  be. 

For  one  whole  day  after  the  robbery  he  was  like  a 
man  paralysed — dispossessed  of  active  being;  but 
when  his  creditors  began  to  swarm,  when  M.  Mor- 
nay  sent  his  man  of  business  down  to  foreclose  his 
mortgages  before  others  could  take  action,  Jean 
Jacques  waked  from  his  apathy.  He  began  an 
imitation  of  his  old  restlessness,  and  made  essay 
again  to  pull  the  strings  of  his  affairs.  They  were, 
however,  so  confused  that  a  pull  at  one  string  tangled 
them  all. 

When  the  constables  and  others  came  to  him, 
and  said  that  they  were  on  the  trail  of  the  robber, 
and  that  the  rogue  would  be  caught,  he  nodded  his 
head  encouragingly;  but  he  was  sure  in  his  own 
mind  that  the  flight  of  Dolores  would  be  as  successful 
as  that  of  Carmen  and  Zoe. 

This  is  the  way  he  put  it:  "That  man — we  will 
just  miss  finding  him,  as  I  missed  Zoe  at  the  railroad 
junction  when  she  went  away,  as  I  missed  catching 
Carmen  at  St.  Chrisanthine.  When  you  are  at  the 

269 


The  Money  Master 


shore,  he  will  be  on  the  river;  when  you  are  getting 
into  the  train,  he  will  be  getting  out.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom of  the  family.  At  Bordeaux,  the  Spanish  de- 
tectives were  on  the  shore  gnashing  their  teeth, 
when  he  was  a  hundred  yards  away  at  sea  on  the 
Antoine.  They  missed  him  like  that;  and  we'll 
miss  him  too.  What  is  the  good!  It  was  not  his 
fault — that  was  the  way  of  his  bringing  up  beyond 
there  at  Cadiz,  where  they  think  more  of  a  toreador 
than  of  John  the  Baptist.  It  was  my  fault.  I 
ought  to  have  banked  the  money.  I  ought  not  to 
have  kept  it  to  look  at  like  a  gamin  with  his  marbles. 
There  it  was  in  the  wall;  and  there  was  Dolores  a 
long  way  from  home  and  wanting  to  get  back.  He 
found  the  way  by  a  gift  of  the  tools;  and  I  wish  I 
had  the  same  gift  now;  for  I've  got  no  other  gift 
that  '11  earn  anything  for  me." 

These  were  the  last  dark  or  pessimistic  words 
spoken  at  St.  Saviour's  by  Jean  Jacques;  and  they 
were  said  to  the  Clerk  of  the  Court,  who  could  not 
deny  the  truth  of  them;  but  he  wrung  the  hand  of 
Jean  Jacques  nevertheless,  and  would  not  leave  him 
night  or  day.  M.  Fille  was  like  a  little  cruiser 
protecting  a  fort  when  gunboats  swarm  near,  not 
daring  to  attack  till  their  battleship  heaves  in  sight. 
The  battleship  was  the  Big  Financier,  who  saw  that 
a  wreck  was  now  inevitable,  and  was  only  concerned 
that  there  should  be  a  fair  distribution  of  the  assets. 
That  meant,  of  course,  that  he  should  be  served 
first,  and  then  that  those  below  the  salt  should  get 
a  share. 

Revelation  after  revelation  had  been  Jean  Jacques' 
270 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

lot  of  late  years,  but  the  final  revelation  of  his  own 
impotence  was  overwhelming.  When  he  began  to 
stir  about  among  his  affairs  he  was  faced  by  the  fact 
that  the  law  stood  in  his  way.  He  realized  with 
inward  horror  his  shattered  egotism  and  natural 
vanity;  he  saw  that  he  might  just  as  well  be  in  jail; 
that  he  had  no  freedom ;  that  he  could  do  nothing  at 
all  in  regard  to  anything  he  owned;  that  he  was, 
in  effect,  a  prisoner  of  war  where  he  had  been  the 
general  commanding  an  army. 

Yet  the  old  pride  intervened,  and  it  was  associated 
with  some  innate  nobility;  for  from  the  hour  in 
which  it  was  known  that  Sebastian  Dolores  had 
escaped  in  a  steamer  bound  for  France,  and  could 
not  be  overhauled,  and  the  chances  were  that  he 
would  never  have  to  yield  up  the  six  thousand 
dollars,  Jean  Jacques  bustled  about  cheerfully,  and 
as  though  he  had  still  great  affairs  of  business  to 
order  and  regulate.  It  was  a  make-believe  which 
few  treated  with  scorn.  Even  the  workmen  at  the 
mill  humoured  him,  as  he  came  several  times  every 
day  to  inspect  the  work  of  rebuilding ;  and  they  took 
his  orders,  though  they  did  not  carry  them  out. 
No  one  really  carried  out  any  of  his  orders  except 
Seraphe  Corniche,  who,  weeping  from  morning  till 
night,  protested  that  there  never  was  so  good  a 
man  as  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques;  and  she  cooked  his 
favourite  dishes,  giving  him  no  peace  until  he  had 
eaten  them. 

The  days,  the  weeks  went  on,  with  Jean  Jacques 
growing  thinner  and  thinner,  but  going  about 
with  his  head  up  like  the  gold  Cock  of  Beaugard, 

271 


The  Money  Master 


and  even  crowing  now  and  then,  as  he  had  done  of 
yore.  He  faced  the  inevitable  with  something  of 
his  old  smiling  volubility;  treating  nothing  of  his 
disaster  as  though  it  really  existed;  signing  off  this 
asset  and  that;  disposing  of  this  thing  and  that; 
stripping  himself  bare  of  all  the  properties  on  his 
life's  stage,  in  such  a  manner  as  might  have  been 
his  had  he  been  receiving  gifts  and  not  yielding  up 
all  he  owned.  He  chatted  as  his  belongings  were, 
figuratively  speaking,  being  carried  away — as  though 
they  were  mechanical,  formal  things  to  be  done  as 
he  had  done  them  every  day  of  a  fairly  long  life; 
as  a  clerk  would  check  off  the  boxes  or  parcels 
carried  past  him  by  the  porters.  M.  Fille  could 
hardly  bear  to  see  him  in  this  mood,  and  the  New 
Cure  hovered  round  him  with  a  mournful  and  harm- 
lessly deceptive  kindness.  But  the  end  had  to  come, 
and  practically  all  the  parish  was  present  when  it 
came. 

That  was  on  the  day  when  the  contents  of  the 
Manor  were  sold  at  auction  by  order  of  the  Court. 
One  thing  Jean  Jacques  refused  absolutely  and 
irrevocably  to  do  from  the  first — refused  it  at  last 
in  anger  and  even  with  an  oath:  he  would  not  go 
through  the  Bankruptcy  Court.  No  persuasion 
had  any  effect.  The  very  suggestion  seemed  to 
smirch  his  honour.  His  lawyer  pleaded  with  him, 
said  he  would  be  able  to  save  something  out  of  the 
wreck,  and  that  his  creditors  would  be  willing  that 
he  should  take  advantage  of  the  privileges  of  that 
court;  but  he  only  said  in  reply: 

"Thank  you,  thank  you  altogether,  monsieur, 
272 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

but  it  is  impossible — 'non  possumus,  non  possumus, 
my  son,'  as  the  Pope  said  to  Bonaparte.  I  owe 
and  I  will  pay  what  I  can ;  and  what  I  can't  pay  now 
I  will  try  to  pay  in  the  future,  by  the  cent,  by  the 
dollar,  till  all  is  paid  to  the  last  copper.  It  is  the  way 
with  the  Barbilles.  They  have  paid  their  way  and 
their  debts  in  honour,  and  it  is  in  the  bond  with  all 
the  Barbilles  of  the  past  that  I  do  as  they  do.  If  I 
can't  do  it,  then  that  I  have  tried  to  do  it  will  be 
endorsed  on  the  foot  of  the  bill." 

No  one  could  move  him,  not  even  Judge  Carcasson, 
who  from  his  armchair  in  Montreal  wrote  a  feeble- 
handed  letter  begging  him  to  believe  that  it  was 
"well  within  his  rights  as  a  gentleman" — this  he 
put  in  at  the  request  of  M.  Mornay — to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  privileges  of  the  Bankruptcy  Court. 
Even  then  Jean  Jacques  had  only  a  few  moments' 
hesitation.  What  the  Judge  said  made  a  deep  im- 
pression; but  he  had  determined  to  drink  the  cup 
of  his  misfortune  to  the  dregs.  He  was  set  upon 
complete  renunciation ;  on  going  forth  like  a  pilgrim 
from  the  place  of  his  troubles  and  sorrows,  taking 
no  gifts,  no  mercies  save  those  which  heaven  accorded 
him. 

When  the  day  of  the  auction  came  everything 
went.  Even  his  best  suit  of  clothes  was  sold  to  a 
blacksmith,  while  his  fur-coat  was  bought  by  a 
horse-doctor  for  fifteen  dollars.  Things  that  had 
been  part  of  his  life  for  a  generation  found  their  way 
into  hands  where  he  would  least  have  wished  them 
to  go — of  those  who  had  been  envious  of  him,  who 
had  cheated  or  deceived  him,  of  people  with  whom 
18  273 


The  Money  Master 


he  had  had  nothing  in  common.  The  red  wagon  and 
the  pair  of  little  long-tailed  stallions,  which  he  had 
driven  for  six  years,  were  bought  by  the  owner  of  a 
rival  flour-mill  in  the  parish  of  Vilray;  but  his  best 
sleigh,  with  its  coon-skin  robes,  was  bought  by  the 
widow  of  Palass  Poucette,  who  bought  also  the 
famous  bear-skin  which  Dolores  had  given  her  at 
Jean  Jacques'  expense,  and  had  been  returned  by 
her  to  its  proper  owner.  The  silver  fruit-dish,  once 
(it  was  said)  the  property  of  the  Baron  of  Beaugard, 
which  each  generation  of  Barbilles  had  displayed 
with  as  much  ceremony  as  though  it  was  a  chalice 
given  by  the  Pope,  went  to  Virginie  Poucette.  Vir- 
ginie  also  bought  the  furniture  from  Zoe's  bedroom 
as  it  stood,  together  with  the  little  upright  piano 
on  which  she  used  to  play.  The  Cure  bought 
Jean  Jacques'  writing-desk,  and  M.  Fille  purchased 
his  armchair,  in  which  had  sat  at  least  six  Barbilles 
as  owners  of  the  Manor.  The  beaver-hat  which 
Jean  Jacques  wore  on  state  occasions,  as  his  grand- 
father had  done,  together  with  the  bonnet  rouge 
of  the  habitant,  donned  by  him  in  his  younger  days — 
they  fell  to  the  nod  of  Mere  Langlois,  who  declared 
that,  as  she  was  a  cousin,  she  would  keep  the  things 
in  the  family.  Mere  Langlois  would  have  bought 
the  fruit-dish  also  if  she  could  have  afforded  to  bid 
against  Virginie  Poucette;  but  the  latter  would 
have  had  the  dish  if  it  had  cost  her  two  hundred 
dollars.  The  only  time  she  had  broken  bread  in 
Jean  Jacques'  house,  she  had  eaten  cake  from  this 
fruit-dish;  and  to  her,  as  to  the  parish  generally, 
the  dish  so  beautifully  shaped,  with  its  graceful 

274 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

depth  and  its  fine-chased  handles,  was  symbol  of  the 
social  caste  of  the  Barbilles,  as  the  gold  Cock  of 
Beaugard  was  sign  of  their  civic  and  commercial 
glory. 

Jean  Jacques,  who  had  moved  about  all  day  with 
an  almost  voluble  affability,  seeming  not  to  realize 
the  tragedy  going  on,  or,  if  he  realized  it,  rising 
superior  to  it,  was  noticed  to  stand  still  suddenly 
when  the  auctioneer  put  up  the  fruit-dish  for  sale. 
Then  the  smile  left  his  face,  and  the  reddish  glow 
in  his  eyes,  which  had  been  there  since  the  burning 
of  the  mill,  fled,  and  a  touch  of  amazement  and 
confusion  took  its  place.  All  in  a  moment  he  was 
like  a  fluttered  dweller  of  the  wilds  to  whom  comes 
some  tremor  of  danger. 

His  mouth  opened  as  though  he  would  forbid  the 
selling  of  the  heirloom;  but  it  closed  again,  because 
he  knew  he  had  no  right  to  withhold  it  from  the 
hammer;  and  he  took  on  a  look  like  that  which 
comes  to  the  eyes  of  a  child  when  it  faces  humiliating 
denial.  Quickly  as  it  came,  however,  it  vanished, 
for  he  remembered  that  he  could  buy  the  dish  him- 
self. He  could  buy  it  himself  and  keep  it.  ...  Yet 
what  could  he  do  with  it?  Even  so,  he  could  keep 
it.  It  could  still  be  his  till  better  days  came. 

The  auctioneer's  voice  told  off  the  value  of  the 
fruit-dish — "As  an  heirloom,  as  an  antique;  as  a 
piece  of  workmanship  impossible  of  duplication  in 
these  days  of  no  handicraft;  as  good  pure  silver, 
bearing  the  head  of  Louis  Quinze — beautiful,  mar- 
vellous, historic,  honourable,"  and  Jean  Jacques 
made  ready  to  bid-  Then  he  remembered  he  had 


The  Money  Master 


no  money — he  who  all  his  life  had  been  able  to  take 
a  roll  of  bills  from  his  pocket  as  another  man  took 
a  packet  of  letters.  His  glance  fell  in  shame,  and  the 
words  died  on  his  lips,  even  as  M.  Manotel,  the  auc- 
tioneer, was  about  to  add  another  five-dollar  bid 
to  the  price,  which  already  was  standing  at  forty 
dollars. 

It  was  at  this  moment  Jean  Jacques  heard  a  wom- 
an's voice  bidding,  then  two  women's  voices.  Look- 
ing up  he  saw  that  one  of  the  women  was  Mere 
Langlois  and  the  other  was  Virginie  Poucette,  who 
had  made  the  first  bid.  For  a  moment  they  con- 
tended, and  then  Mere  Langlois  fell  out  of  the  con- 
test, and  Virginie  continued  it  with  an  ambitious 
farmer  from  the  next  county,  who  was  about  to 
become  a  Member  of  Parliament.  Presently  the 
owner  of  a  river  pleasure-steamer  entered  into  the 
costly  emulation  also,  but  he  soon  fell  away;  and 
Virginie  Poucette  stubbornly  raised  the  bidding  by 
five  dollars  each  time,  till  the  silver  symbol  of  the 
Barbilles'  pride  had  reached  one  hundred  dollars. 
Then  she  raised  the  price  by  ten  dollars,  and  her 
rival,  seeing  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  a  woman 
who  would  now  bid  till  her  last  dollar  was  at  stake, 
withdrew;  and  Virginie  was  left  triumphant  with 
the  heirloom. 

At  the  moment  when  Virginie  turned  away  with 
the  handsome  dish  from  M.  Manotel,  and  the  crowd 
cheered  her  gaily,  she  caught  Jean  Jacques'  eye, 
and  she  came  straight  towards  him.  She  wanted 
to  give  the  dish  to  him  then  and  there;  but  she  knew 
that  this  would  provide  annoying  gossip  for  many 

276 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu*  Jean  Jacques" 

a  day,  and  besides,  she  thought  he  would  refuse. 
More  than  that,  she  had  in  her  mind  another  alter- 
native which  might  in  the  end  secure  the  heirloom 
to  him,  in  spite  of  all.  As  she  passed  him,  she  said : 

"At  least  we  keep  it  in  the  parish.  If  you  don't 
have  it,  well,  then.  ..." 

She  paused,  for  she  did  not  quite  know  what  to 
say  unless  she  spoke  what  was  really  in  her  mind, 
and  she  dared  not  do  that. 

"But  you  ought  to  have  an  heirloom,"  she  added, 
leaving  unsaid  what  was  her  real  thought  and  hope. 

With  sudden  inspiration,  for  he  saw  she  was  trying 
to  make  it  easy  for  him,  he  drew  the  great  silver 
watch  from  his  pocket,  which  the  head  of  the  Bar- 
billes  had  worn  for  generations,  and  said: 

"I  have  the  only  heirloom  I  could  carry  about 
with  me.  It  will  keep  time  for  me  as  long  as  I'll 
last.  The  Manor  clock  strikes  the  time  for  the 
world,  and  this  watch  is  set  by  the  Manor  clock." 

"Well  said — well  and  truly  said,  M'sieu'  Jean 
Jacques,"  remarked  the  lean  watchmaker  and  so- 
called  jeweller  of  Vilray,  who  stood  near.  "It  is  a 
watch  which  couldn't  miss  the  stroke  of  Judgment 
Day." 

It  was  at  that  moment,  in  the  sunset  hour,  when 
the  sale  had  drawn  to  a  close,  and  the  people  had 
begun  to  disperse,  that  the  avocat  of  Vilray  who 
represented  the  Big  Financier  came  to  Jean  Jacques 
and  said: 

"M'sieu',  I  have  to  say  that  there  is  due  to  you 
three  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  from  the  settlement, 
excluding  this  sale,  which  will  just  do  what  was  ex- 
ay; 


The  Money  Master 


pected  of  it.  I  am  instructed  to  give  it  to  you  from 
the  creditors.  Here  it  is." 

He  took  out  a  roll  of  bills  and  offered  it  to  Jean 
Jacques. 

"What  creditors?"  asked  Jean  Jacques. 

"All  the  creditors,"  responded  the  other,  and  he 
produced  a  receipt  for  Jean  Jacques  to  sign.  "A 
formal  statement  will  be  sent  you,  and  if  there  is  any 
more  due  to  you,  it  will  be  added  then.  But  now- 
well,  there  it  is,  the  creditors  think  there  is  no  reason 
for  you  to  wait." 

Jean  Jacques  did  not  yet  take  the  roll  of  bills. 
"They  come  from  M.  Mornay?"  he  asked  with  an 
air  of  resistance,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  be  under 
further  obligations  to  the  man  who  would  lose  most 
by  him. 

The  lawyer  was  prepared.  M.  Mornay  had  fore- 
seen the  timidity  and  sensitiveness  of  Jean  Jacques, 
had  anticipated  his  mistaken  chivalry — for  how 
could  a  man  decline  to  take  advantage  of  the  Bank- 
ruptcy Court  unless  he  was  another  Don  Quixote! 
He  had  therefore  arranged  with  all  the  creditors  for 
them  to  take  responsibility  with  himself,  though  he 
provided  the  cash  which  manipulated  this  settle- 
ment. 

"No,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques,"  the  lawyer  replied, 
"this  comes  from  all  the  creditors,  as  the  sum  due 
to  you  from  all  the  transactions,  so  far  as  can  be  seen 
as  yet.  Further  adjustment  may  be  necessary,  but 
this  is  the  interim  settlement." 

Jean  Jacques  was  far  from  being  ignorant  of  busi- 
ness, but  so  bemused  was  his  judgment  and  his  in- 

278 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

telligence  now,  that  he  did  not  see  there  was  no 
balance  which  could  possibly  be  his,  since  his  liabili- 
ties vastly  exceeded  his  assets.  Yet  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand  he  accepted  the  roll  of  bills,  and  signed  the 
receipt  with  an  air  which  said,  "These  forms  must 
be  observed,  I  suppose." 

What  he  would  have  done  if  the  three  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  had  not  been  given  him,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say,  for  with  gentle  asperity  he  had  declined 
a  loan  from  his  friend  M.  Fille,  and  he  had  but  one 
silver  dollar  in  his  pocket,  or  in  the  world.  Indeed, 
Jean  Jacques  was  living  in  a  dream  in  these  dark 
days — a  dream  of  renunciation  and  sacrifice,  and  in 
the  spirit  of  one  who  gives  up  all  to  some  great  cause. 
He  was  not  yet  even  face  to  face  with  the  fulness  of 
his  disaster.  Only  at  moments  had  the  real  sig- 
nificance of  it  all  come  to  him,  and  then  he  had  shiv- 
ered as  before  some  terror  menacing  his  path.  Also, 
as  M.  Mornay  had  said,  his  philosophy  was  now  in 
his  bones  and  marrow  rather  than  in  his  words.  It 
had,  after  all,  tinctured  his  blood  and  impregnated 
his  mind.  He  had  babbled  and  been  the  egotist,  and 
played  cock-o'-the-walk ;  and  now  at  last  his  phi- 
losophy was  giving  some  foundation  for  his  feet. 
Yet  at  this  auction-sale  he  looked  a  distracted,  if 
smiling,  whimsical,  rather  bustling  figure  of  mis- 
fortune, with  a  tragic  air  of  exile,  of  isolation  from 
all  by  which  he  was  surrounded.  A  profound  and 
wayworn  loneliness  showed  in  his  figure,  in  his  face, 
in  his  eyes. 

The  crowd  thinned  in  time,  and  yet  very  many 
lingered  to  see  the  last  of  this  drama  of  lost  fortunes. 

279 


The  Money  Master 


A  few  of  the  riff-raff,  who  invariably  attend  these 
public  scenes,  were  now  rather  the  worse  for  drink, 
from  the  indifferent  liquor  provided  by  the  auc- 
tioneer, and  they  were  inclined  to  horseplay  and 
coarse  chaff.  More  than  one  ribald  reference  to  Jean 
Jacques  had  been  checked  by  his  chivalrous  fellow- 
citizens;  indeed,  M.  Fille  had  almost  laid  himself 
open  to  a  charge  of  assault  in  his  own  court  by 
raising  his  stick  at  a  loafer,  who  made  insulting 
references  to  Jean  Jacques.  But  as  the  sale  drew  to 
a  close,  an  air  of  rollicking  humour  among  the 
younger  men  would  not  be  suppressed,  and  it  looked 
as  though  Jean  Jacques'  exit  would  be  attended  by 
the  elements  of  farce  and  satire. 

In  this  world,  however,  things  do  not  happen 
logically,  and  Jean  Jacques  made  his  exit  in  a  wholly 
unexpected  manner.  He  was  going  away  by  the 
train  which  left  a  new  railway  junction  a  few  miles 
off,  having  gently  yet  firmly  declined  M.  Fille's 
invitation,  and  also  the  invitations  of  others — in- 
cluding the  Cure  and  Mere  Langlois — to  spend  the 
night  with  them  and  start  off  the  next  day.  He 
elected  to  go  on  to  Montreal  that  very  night,  and 
before  the  sale  was  quite  finished  he  prepared  to 
start.  His  carpet-bag  containing  a  few  clothes  and 
necessaries  had  been  sent  on  to  the  junction,  and  he 
meant  to  walk  to  the  station  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening. 

M.  Manotel,  the  auctioneer,  hoarse  with  his  heavy 
day's  work,  was  announcing  that  there  were  only  a 
few  more  things  to  sell,  and  no  doubt  they  could  be 
had  at  a  bargain,  when  Jean  Jacques  began  a  tour 

280 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

of  the  Manor.  There  was  something  inexpressibly 
mournful  in  this  lonely  pilgrimage  of  the  dismantled 
mansion.  Yet  there  was  no  show  of  cheap  emotion 
by  Jean  Jacques ;  and  a  wave  of  the  hand  prevented 
anyone  from  following  him  in  his  dry-eyed  progress 
to  say  farewell  to  these  haunts  of  childhood,  man- 
hood, family,  and  home.  There  was  a  strange  numb- 
ness in  his  mind  and  body,  and  he  had  a  feeling  that 
he  moved  immense  and  reflective  among  material 
things.  Only  tragedy  can  produce  that  feeling. 
Happiness  makes  the  universe  infinite  and  stupen- 
dous, despair  makes  it  small  and  even  trivial. 

It  was  when  he  had  reached  the  little  office  where 
he  had  done  the  business  of  his  life — a  kind  of  neu- 
tral place  where  he  had  ever  isolated  himself  from 
the  domestic  scene — that  the  final  sensation,  save 
one,  of  his  existence  at  the  Manor  came  to  him. 
Virginie  Poucette  had  divined  his  purpose  when  he 
began  the  tour  of  the  house,  and  going  by  a  round- 
about way,  she  had  placed  herself  where  she  could 
speak  with  him  alone  before  he  left  the  place  for 
ever — if  that  was  to  be.  She  was  not  sure  that  his 
exit  was  really  inevitable — not  yet. 

When  Jean  Jacques  saw  Virginie  standing  beside 
the  table  in  his  office  where  he  had  worked  over  so 
many  years,  now  marked  Sold,  and  waiting  to  be 
taken  away  by  its  new  owner,  he  started  and  drew 
back,  but  she  held  out  her  hand  and  said: 

"But  one  word,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques;  only  one 
word  from  a  friend — indeed  a  friend." 

"A  friend  of  friends,"  he  answered,  still  in  ab- 
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straction,  his  eyes  having  that  burnished  light  which 
belonged  to  the  night  of  the  fire;  but  yet  realizing 
that  she  was  a  sympathetic  soul  who  had  offered 
to  lend  him  money  without  security. 

' '  Oh,  indeed  yes,  as  good  a  friend  as  you  can  ever 
have!"  she  added. 

Something  had  waked  the  bigger  part  of  her, 
which  had  never  been  awake  in  the  days  of  Palass 
Poucette.  Jean  Jacques  was  much  older  than  she, 
but  what  she  felt  had  nothing  to  do  with  age,  or 
place  or  station.  It  had  only  to  do  with  understand- 
ing, with  the  call  of  nature  and  of  a  motherhood 
crying  for  expression.  Her  heart  ached  for  him. 

"Well,  good-bye,  my  friend,"  he  said,  and  held 
out  his  hand.  "I  must  be  going  now." 

"Wait,"  she  said,  and  there  was  something  in- 
sistent and  yet  pleading  in  her  voice.  "I've  got 
something  to  say.  You  must  hear  it.  ...  Why 
should  you  go?  There  is  my  farm — it  needs  to  be 
worked  right.  It  has  got  good  chances.  It  has 
water-power  and  wood  and  the  best  flax  in  the 
province — they  want  to  start  a  flax-mill  on  it— 
I've  had  letters  from  big  men  in  Montreal.  Well, 
why  shouldn't  you  do  it  instead?  There  it  is,  the 
farm,  and  there  am  I  a  woman  alone.  I  need  help. 
I've  got  no  head.  I  have  to  work  at  a  sum  of  figures 
all  night  to  get  it  straight.  .  .  .  Ah,  m'sieu',  it  is 
a  need  both  sides !  You  want  someone  to  look  after 
you ;  you  want  a  chance  again  to  do  things ;  but  you 
want  someone  to  look  after  you,  and  it  is  all  waiting 
there  on  the  farm.  Palass  Poucette  left  behind  him 
seven  sound  horses,  and  cows  and  sheep,  and  a 

282 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques'* 

threshing-machine  and  a  fanning-mill,  and  no  debts, 
and  two  thousand  dollars  in  the  bank.  You  will 
never  do  anything  away  from  here.  You  must  stay 
here,  where — where  I  can  look  after  you,  Jean 
Jacques." 

The  light  in  his  eyes  flamed  up,  died  down,  flamed 
up  again,  and  presently  it  covered  all  his  face,  as 
he  grasped  what  she  meant. 

"Wonder  of  God,  do  you  forget?"  he  asked. 
"I  am  married — married  still,  Virginie  Poucette. 
There  is  no  divorce  in  the  Catholic  Church — no, 
none  at  all.  It  is  for  ever  and  ever." 

"I  said  nothing  about  marriage,"  she  said  bravely, 
though  her  face  suffused. 

"Hand  of  Heaven,  what  do  you  mean?  You  mean 
to  say  you  would  do  that  for  me  in  spite  of  the  Cure 
and — and  everybody  and  everything?" 

"You  ought  to  be  taken  care  of,"  she  protested. 
"You  ought  to  have  your  chance  again.  No  one 
here  is  free  to  do  it  all  but  me.  You  are  alone. 
Your  wife  that  was — maybe  she  is  dead.  I  am  alone, 
and  I'm  not  afraid  of  what  the  good  God  will  say. 
I  will  settle  with  Him  myself.  Well,  then,  do  you 
think  I'd  care  what — what  Mere  Langlois  or  the 
rest  of  the  world  would  say?  ...  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  you  going  away  with  nothing,  with  nobody, 
when  here  is  something  and  somebody — somebody 
who  would  be  good  to  you.  Everybody  knows 
that  you've  been  badly  used — everybody.  I'm 
young  enough  to  make  things  bright  and  warm  in 
your  life,  and  the  place  is  big  enough  for  two,  even 
if  it  isn't  the  Manor  Cartier." 

283 


The  Money  Master 


"Figure  de  Christ,  do  you  think  I'd  let  you  do 
it — me?"  declared  Jean  Jacques,  with  lips  trembling 
now  and  his  shoulders  heaving.  Misfortune  and 
pain  and  penalty  he  could  stand,  but  sacrifice  like 
this  and — and  whatever  else  it  was,  were  too  much 
for  him.  They  brought  him  back  to  the  dusty 
road  and  everyday  life  again;  they  subtracted  him 
from  his  big  dream,  in  which  he  had  been  detached 
from  the  details  of  his  catastrophe. 

"No,  no,  no,"  he  added.  "You  go  look  another 
way,  Virginie.  Turn  your  face  to  the  young  spring, 
not  to  the  dead  winter.  To-morrow  I'll  be  gone  to 
find  what  I've  got  to  find.  I've  finished  here,  but 
there's  many  a  good  man  waiting  for  you — men 
who'll  bring  you  something  worth  while  besides 
themselves.  Make  no  mistake,  I've  finished.  I've 
done  my  term  of  life.  I'm  only  out  on  ticket-of- 
leave  now — but  there,  enough,  I  shall  always  want 
to  think  of  you.  I  wish  I  had  something  to  give 
you — but  yes,  here  is  something."  He  drew  from 
his  pocket  a  silver  napkin-ring.  "I've  had  that 
since  I  was  five  years  old.  My  uncle  St£fan  gave 
it  to  me.  I've  always  used  it.  I  don't  know  why 
I  put  it  in  my  pocket  this  morning,  but  I  did.  Take 
it.  It's  more  than  money.  It's  got  something  of 
Jean  Jacques  about  it.  You've  got  the  Barbille 
fruit-dish — that  is  a  thing  I'll  remember.  I'm  glad 
you've  got  it,  and— 

"I  meant  we  should  both  eat  from  it,"  she  said 
helplessly. 

"It  would  cost  too  much  to  eat  from  it  with  you, 
Virginie— 

284 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

He  stopped  short,  choked,  then  his  face  cleared, 
and  his  eyes  became  steady. 

"Well  then,  good-bye,  Virginie,"  he  said,  holding 
out  his  hand. 

"You  don't  think  I'd  say  to  any  other  living  man 
what  I've  said  to  you?"  she  asked. 

He  nodded  understandingly.  "That's  the  best 
part  of  it.  It  was  for  me  of  all  the  world,"  he  an- 
swered. "When  I  look  back,  I'll  see  the  light  in 
your  window — the  light  you  lit  for  the  lost  one — 
for  Jean  Jacques  Barbille." 

Suddenly,  with  eyes  that  did  not  see  and  hands  held 
out  before  him,  he  turned,  felt  for  the  door  and  left 
the  room. 

She  leaned  helplessly  against  the  table.  "The 
poor  Jean  Jacques — the  poor  Jean  Jacques!"  she 
murmured.  "Cure  or  no  Cure,  I'd  have  done  it," 
she  declared,  with  a  ring  to  her  voice.  "Ah,  but, 
Jean  Jacques,  come  with  me!"  she  added  with  a 
hungry  and  compassionate  gesture,  speaking  into 
space.  "I  could  make  life  worth  while  for  us  both." 

A  moment  later  Virginie  was  outside,  watching  the 
last  act  in  the  career  of  Jean  Jacques  in  the  parish  of 
St.  Saviour's. 

This  was  what  she  saw. 

The  auctioneer  was  holding  up  a  bird-cage  con- 
taining a  canary — Carmen's  bird-cage,  and  Zoe's 
canary  which  had  remained  to  be  a  vocal  memory 
of  her  in  her  old  home. 

"Here,"  said  the  rhetorical,  inflammable  auction- 
eer, "here  is  the  choicest  lot  left  to  the  last.  I  put 

?85 


it  away  in  the  bakery,  meaning  to  sell  it  at  noon, 
when  everybody  was  eating — food  for  the  soul  and 
food  for  the  body.  I  forgot  it.  But  here  it  is, 
worth  anything  you  like  to  anybody  that  loves  the 
beautiful,  the  good,  and  the  harmonious.  What  do 
I  hear  for  this  lovely  saffron  singer  from  the  Elysian 
fields?  What  did  the  immortal  poet  of  France  say 
of  the  bird  in  his  garret,  in  'L'Oiseau  de  Mon  Grenier'f 
What  did  he  say: 

'  Sing  me  a  song  of  the  bygone  hour, 

A  song  of  the  stream  and  the  sun; 
Sing  of  my  love  in  her  bosky  bower, 
When  my  heart  it  was  twenty-one.' 

Come  now,  who  will  renew  his  age  or  regale  her 
youth  with  the  divine  notes  of  nature's  minstrel? 
Who  will  make  me  an  offer  for  this  vestal  virgin  of 
song — the  joy  of  the  morning  and  the  benediction 
of  the  evening?  What  do  I  hear?  The  best  of  the 
wine  to  the  last  of  the  feast !  What  do  I  hear  ? — five 
dollars — seven  dollars — nine  dollars — going  at  nine 
dollars — ten  dollars — Well,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the 
bird  can  sing — ah,  voild!" 

He  stopped  short  for  a  moment,  for  as  the  evening 
sun  swept  its  veil  of  rainbow  radiance  over  the  scene, 
the  bird  began  to  sing.  Its  little  throat  swelled,  it 
chirruped,  it  trilled,  it  called,  it  soared,  it  lost  itself 
in  a  flood  of  ecstasy.  In  the  applausive  silence,  the 
emotional  recess  of  the  sale,  as  it  were,  the  man  to 
whom  the  bird  and  the  song  meant  most,  pushed 
his  way  up  to  the  stand  where  M.  Manotel  stood. 
When  the  people  saw  who  it  was,  they  fell  back,  for 

286 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques" 

there  was  that  in  his  face  which  needed  no  interpre- 
tation. It  filled  them  with  a  kind  of  awe. 

He  reached  up  a  brown,  eager,  affectionate  hand — 
it  had  always  been  that — fat  and  small,  but  rather 
fine  and  certainly  emotional,  though  not  material  or 
sensual. 

"Go  on  with  your  bidding,"  he  said. 

He  was  going  to  buy  the  thing  which  had  belonged 
to  his  daughter,  was  beloved  by  her — the  living 
oracle  of  the  morning,  the  muezzin  of  his  mosque 
of  home.  It  had  been  to  the  girl  who  had  gone  as 
another  such  a  bird  had  been  to  the  mother  of  the 
girl,  the  voice  that  sang,  "Praise  God"  in  the  short 
summer  of  that  bygone  happiness  of  his.  Even  this 
cage  and  its  home-bird  were  not  his;  they  belonged 
to  the  creditors. 

"Go  on.  I  buy — I  bid,"  Jean  Jacques  said  in  a 
voice  that  rang.  It  had  no  blur  of  emotion.  It  had 
resonance.  The  hammer  that  struck  the  bell  of  his 
voice  was  the  hammer  of  memory,  and  if  it  was  plain- 
tive it  also  was  clear,  and  it  was  also  vibrant  with  the 
silver  of  lost  hopes. 

M.  Manotel  humoured  him,  while  the  bird  still 
sang. 

"Four  dollars — five  dollars:  do  I  hear  no  more 
than  five  dollars? — going  once,  going  twice,  going 
three  times — gone!"  he  cried,  for  no  one  had  made 
a  further  bid;  and  indeed  M.  Manotel  would  not 
have  heard  another  voice  than  Jean  Jacques'  if  it 
had  been  as  loud  as  the  falls  of  the  Saguenay.  He 
was  a  kind  of  poet  in  his  way,  was  M.  Manotel.  He 
had  been  married  four  times,  and  he  would  be  mar- 

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The  Money  Master 


ried  again  if  he  had  the  chance ;  also  he  wrote  verses 
for  tombstones  in  the  churchyard  at  St.  Saviour's, 
and  couplets  for  f6tes  and  weddings. 

He  handed  the  cage  to  Jean  Jacques,  who  put  it 
down  on  the  ground  at  his  feet,  and  in  an  instant  had 
handed  up  five  dollars  for  one  of  the  idols  of  his  own 
altar.  Anyone  else  than  M.  Manotel,  or  perhaps  M. 
Fille  or  the  New  Cure,  would  have  hesitated  to  take 
the  five  dollars,  or,  if  they  had  done  so,  would  have 
handed  it  back;  but  they  had  souls  to  understand 
this  Jean  Jacques,  and  they  would  not  deny  him  his 
insistent  independence.  And  so,  in  a  moment,  he 
was  making  his  way  out  of  the  crowd  with  the  cage 
in  his  hand,  the  bird  silent  now. 

As  he  went,  someone  touched  his  arm  and  slipped 
a  book  into  his  hand.  It  was  M.  Fille,  and  the  book 
was  his  little  compendium  of  philosophy  which  his 
friend  had  retrieved  from  his  bedroom  in  the  early 
morning. 

"You  weren't  going  to  forget  it,  Jean  Jacques?" 
M.  Fille  said  reproachfully.  "It  is  an  old  friend. 
It  would  not  be  happy  with  anyone  else." 

Jean  Jacques  looked  M.  Fille  in  the  eyes.  "Moi— 
je  suis  philosophe,"  he  said  without  any  of  the  old 
insistence  and  pride  and  egotism,  but  as  one  would 
make  an  affirmation  or  repeat  a  creed. 

"Yes,  yes,  to  be  sure,  always,  as  of  old,"  an- 
swered M.  Fille  firmly;  for,  from  that  formula  might 
come  strength,  when  it  was  most  needed,  in  a  sense 
other  and  deeper  far  than  it  had  been  or  was  now. 
' '  You  will  remember  that  you  will  always  know  where 
to  find  us — eh?"  added  the  little  Clerk  of  the  Court. 

288 


"Au  Voir,  M'sieu*  Jean  Jacques" 

The  going  of  Jean  Jacques  was  inevitable;  all 
persuasion  had  failed  to  induce  him  to  stay — even 
that  of  Virginie;  and  M.  Fille  now  treated  it  as 
though  it  was  the  beginning  of  a  new  career  for 
Jean  Jacques,  whatever  that  career  might  be.  It 
might  be  he  would  come  back  some  day,  but  not  to 
things  as  they  were,  not  ever  again,  nor  as  the  same 
man. 

"You  will  move  on  with  the  world  outside  there," 
continued  M.  Fille,  "but  we  shall  be  turning  on  the 
same  swivel  here  always;  and  whenever  you  come 
— there,  you  understand.  With  us  it  is  semper  fidelis, 
always  the  same." 

Jean  Jacques  looked  at  M.  Fille  again  as  though  to 
ask  him  a  question,  but  presently  he  shook  his  head 
in  negation  to  his  thought.- 

"Well,  good-bye,"  he  said  cheerfully — "A  la 
bonne  heure!" 

By  that  M.  Fille  knew  that  Jean  Jacques  did  not 
wish  for  company  as  he  went — not  even  the  com- 
pany of  his  old  friend  who  had  loved  the  bright 
whimsical  emotional  Zoe;  who  had  hovered  around 
his  life  like  a  protecting  spirit. 

"A  bi'tdt,"  responded  M.  Fille,  declining  upon  the 
homely  patois. 

But  as  Jean  Jacques  walked  away  with  his  little 
book  of  philosophy  in  his  pocket,  and  the  bird-cage 
in  his  hand,  someone  sobbed.  M.  Fille  turned  and 
saw.  It  was  Virginie  Poucette.  Fortunately  for 
Virginie  other  women  did  the  same,  not  for  the  same 
reason,  but  out  of  a  sympathy  which  was  part  of 
the  scene. 

19  289 


The  Money  Master 


It  had  been  the  intention  of  some  friends  of  Jean 
Jacques  to  give  him  a  cheer  when  he  left,  and  even 
his  sullen  local  creditors,  now  that  the  worst  had  come, 
were  disposed  to  give  him  a  good  send-off;  but  the 
incident  of  the  canary  in  its  cage  gave  a  turn  to  the 
feeling  of  the  crowd  which  could  not  be  resisted. 
They  were  not  a  people  who  could  cut  and  dry  their 
sentiments;  they  were  all  impulse  and  simplicity, 
with  an  obvious  cocksure  shrewdness  too,  like  that 
of  Jean  Jacques — of  the  old  Jean  Jacques.  He  had 
been  the  epitome  of  all  their  faults  and  all  their 
virtues. 

No  one  cheered.  Only  one  person  called,  "Au 
'voir,  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques!"  and  no  one  followed 
him — a  curious,  assertive,  feebly-brisk,  shock-headed 
figure  in  the  brown  velveteen  jacket,  which  he  had 
bought  in  Paris  on  his  Grand  Tour. 

"What  a  ridiculous  little  man!"  said  a  woman 
from  Chalfonte  over  the  water,  who  had  been  buying 
freely  all  day  for  her  new  "Manor,"  her  husband 
being  a  member  of  the  provincial  legislature. 

The  words  were  no  sooner  out  of  her  mouth  than 
two  women  faced  her  threateningly. 

"For  two  pins  I'd  slap  your  face,"  said  old  Mere 
Langlois,  her  great  breast  heaving.  "Popinjay— 
you,  that  ought  to  be  in  a  cage  like  his  canary." 

But  Virginie  Poucette  also  was  there  in  front  of 
the  offender,  and  she  also  had  come  from  Chalfonte 
—was  born  in  that  parish;  and  she  knew  what  she 
was  facing. 

"Better  carry  a  bird-cage  and  a  book  than  carry 
swill  to  swine,"  she  said;  and  madame  from  Chal- 

290 


"Au  'voir,  M'sieu*  Jean  Jacques" 

fonte  turned  white,  for  it  had  been  said  that  her 
father  was  once  a  swine-herd,  and  that  she  had  tried 
her  best  to  forget  it  when,  with  her  coarse  beauty, 
she  married  the  well-to-do  farmer  who  was  now  in 
the  legislature. 

"Hold  your  tongues,  all  of  you,  and  look  at  that," 
said  M.  Manotel,  who  had  joined  the  agitated  group. 
He  was  pointing  towards  the  departing  Jean  Jacques, 
who  was  now  away  upon  his  road. 

Jean  Jacques  had  raised  the  cage  on  a  level  with 
his  face,  and  was  evidently  speaking  to  the  bird  in 
the  way  birds  love — that  soft  kissing  sound  to  which 
they  reply  with  song. 

Presently  there  came  a  chirp  or  two,  and  then  the 
bird  thrust  up  its  head,  and  out  came  the  full 
blessedness  of  its  song,  exultant,  home-like,  intimate. 

Jean  Jacques  walked  on,  the  bird  singing  by  his 
side;  and  he  did  not  look  back. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

IF    SHE    HAD    KNOWN    IN    TIME 

NOTHING  stops  when  we  stop  for  a  time,  or 
for  all  time,  except  ourselves.  Everything  else 
goes  on — not  in  the  same  way;  but  it  does  go  on. 
Life  did  not  stop  at  St.  Saviour's  after  Jean  Jacques 
made  his  exit.  Slowly  the  ruined  mill  rose  up  again, 
and  very  slowly  indeed  the  widow  of  Palass  Pou- 
cette  recovered  her  spirits,  though  she  remained  a 
widow  in  spite  of  all  appeals;  but  M.  Fille  and  his 
sister  never  were  the  same  after  they  lost  their 
friend.  They  had  great  comfort  in  the  dog  which 
Jean  Jacques  had  given  to  them,  and  they  roused 
themselves  to  a  malicious  pleasure  when  Bobon, 
as  he  had  been  called  by  Zo6,  rushed  out  at  the  heels 
of  an  importunate  local  creditor  who  had  greatly 
worried  Jean  Jacques  at  the  last.  They  waited  in 
vain  for  a  letter  from  Jean  Jacques,  but  none  came; 
nor  did  they  hear  anything  from  him,  or  of  him,  for 
a  long,  long  time. 

Jean  Jacques  did  not  mean  that  they  should. 
When  he  went  away  with  his  book  of  philosophy  and 
his  canary  he  had  but  one  thing  in  his  mind,  and  that 
was  to  find  Zo6  and  make  her  understand  that  he 
knew  he  had  been  in  the  wrong.  He  had  illusions 

292 


If  she  had  known  in  time 


about  starting  life  again,  in  which  he  probably  did 
not  believe;  but  the  make-believe  was  good  for  him. 
Long  before  the  crash  came,  in  Zoe's  name — not  his 
own — he  had  bought  from  the  Government  three 
hundred  and  twenty  acres  of  land  out  near  the 
Rockies  and  had  spent  five  hundred  dollars  in  im- 
provements on  it.  There  it  was  in  the  West,  one 
remaining  asset  still  his  own — or  rather  Zo£'s — 
but  worth  little  if  he  or  she  did  not  develop  it.  As 
he  left  St.  Saviour's,  however,  he  kept  fixing  his 
mind  on  that  "last  domain,"  as  he  called  it  to  him- 
self. If  this  was  done  intentionally,  that  he  might 
be  saved  from  distraction  and  despair,  it  was  well 
done;  if  it  was  a  real  illusion — the  old  self-deception 
which  had  been  his  bane  so  often  in  the  past — it 
still  could  only  do  him  good  at  the  present.  It 
prevented  him  from  noticing  the  attention  he  at- 
tracted on  the  railway  journey  from  St.  Saviour's 
to  Montreal,  cherishing  his  canary  and  his  book  as 
he  went. 

He  was  not  so  self-conscious  now  as  in  the  days 
when  he  was  surprised  that  Paris  did  not  stop  to 
say,  "Bless  us,  here  is  that  fine  fellow,  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille  of  St.  Saviour's!"  He  could  concentrate 
himself  more  now  on  things  that  did  not  concern 
the  impression  he  was  making  on  the  world.  At 
present  he  could  only  think  of  Zoe  and  of  her  future. 

When  a  patronizing  and  aggressive  commercial 
traveller  in  ihe  little  hotel  on  a  side-street  where  he 
had  taken  a  room  in  Montreal  said  to  him,  "Bien, 
mon  vieux"  (which  is  to  say,  "Well,  old  cock"), 
"aren't  you  a  long  way  from  home?"  something 

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of  a  new  dignity  came  into  Jean  Jacques'  bearing, 
very  different  from  the  assurance  of  the  old  days, 
and  in  reply  he  said:  "Not  so  far  that  I  need  be 
careless  about  my  company." 

This  made  the  landlady  of  the  little  hotel  laugh 
quite  hard,  for  she  did  not  like  the  braggart 
"drummer"  who  had  treated  her  with  great  con- 
descension for  a  number  of  years.  Also  Madame 
Glozel  liked  Jean  Jacques  because  of  his  canary. 
She  thought  there  must  be  some  sentimental  reason 
for  a  man  of  fifty  or  more  carrying  a  bird  about  with 
him;  and  she  did  not  rest  until  she  had  drawn  from 
Jean  Jacques  that  he  was  taking  the  bird  to  his 
daughter  in  the  West.  There,  however,  madame 
was  stayed  in  her  search  for  information.  Jean 
Jacques  closed  up,  and  did  but  smile  when  she 
adroitly  set  traps  for  him,  and  at  last  asked  him 
outright  where  his  daughter  was. 

Why  he  waited  in  Montreal  it  would  be  hard  to 
say,  save  that  it  was  a  kind  of  middle  place  between 
the  old  life  and  the  new,  and  also  because  he  must 
decide  what  was  to  be  his  plan  of  search.  First 
the  West — first  Winnipeg,  but  where  after  that? 
He  had  at  last  secured  information  of  where  Zoe  and 
Gerard  Fynes  had  stayed  while  in  Montreal;  and 
now  he  followed  clues  which  would  bring  him  in 
touch  with  folk  who  knew  them.  He  came  to  know 
one  or  two  people  who  were  with  Zoe  and  Gerard 
in  the  last  days  they  spent  in  the  metropolis,  and  he 
turned  over  and  over  in  his  mind  every  word  said 
about  his  girl,  as  a  child  turns  a  sweetmeat  in  its 
mouth.  This  made  him  eager  to  be  off;  but  on 

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If  she  had  known  in  time 


the  very  day  he  decided  to  start  at  once  for  the 
West,  something  strange  happened. 

It  was  towards  the  late  afternoon  of  a  Saturday, 
when  the  streets  were  full  of  people  going  to  and 
from  the  shops  in  a  marketing  quarter,  that  Madame 
Glozel  came  to  him  and  said : 

"M'sieu',  I  have  an  idea,  and  you  will  not  think 
it  strange,  for  you  have  a  kind  heart.  There  is  a 
woman — look  you,  it  is  a  sad,  sad  story  hers.  She 
is  ill  and  dying  in  a  room  a  little  way  down  the  street. 
But  yes,  I  am  sure  she  is  dying — of  heart  disease 
it  is.  She  came  here  first  when  the  illness  took  her, 
but  she  could  not  afford  to  stay.  She  went  to  those 
cheaper  lodgings  down  the  street.  She  used  to  be  on 
the  stage  over  in  the  States,  and  then  she  came  back 
here,  and  there  was  a  man — married  to  him  or  not 
I  do  not  know,  and  I  will  not  think.  Well,  the  man 
— the  brute — he  left  her  when  she  got  ill — but  yes, 
forsook  her  absolutely!  He  was  a  land-agent  or 
something  like  that,  and  all  very  fine  to  your  face, 
to  promise  and  to  pretend — just  make-believe. 
When  her  sickness  got  worse,  off  he  went  with  'Au 
revoir,  my  dear — I  will  be  back  to  supper.'  Supper! 
If  she'd  waited  for  her  supper  till  he  came  back, 
she'd  have  waited  as  long  as  I've  done  for  the  for- 
tune the  gipsy  promised  me  forty  years  ago.  Away 
he  went,  the  rogue,  without  a  thought  of  her,  and 
with  another  woman.  That's  what  hurt  her  most 
of  all.  Straight  from  her  that  could  hardly  drag 
herself  about — ah,  yes,  and  has  been  as  handsome 
a  woman  as  ever  was! — straight  from  her  he  went 
to  a  slut.  She  was  a  slut,  m'sieu' — did  I  not  know 

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her?  Did  Ma'm'selle  Slut  not  wait  at  table  in  this 
house  and  lead  the  men  a  dance  here  night  and.  day 
— day  and  night  till  I  found  it  out !  Well,  off  he  went 
with  the  slut,  and  left  the  lady  behind.  .  .  .  You 
men,  you  treat  women  so." 

Jean  Jacques  put  out  a  hand  as  though  to  argue 
with  her.  "Sometimes  it  is  the  other  way,"  he 
retorted.  "Most  of  us  have  seen  it  like  that." 

"Well,  for  sure,  you're  right  enough  there, 
m'sieuY'  was  the  response.  "I've  got  nothing  to 
say  to  that,  except  that  it's  a  man  that  runs  away 
with  a  woman,  or  that  gets  her  to  leave  her  husband 
when  she  does  go.  There's  always  a  man  that  says, 
'Come  along,  I'm  the  better  chap  for  you.'" 

Jean  Jacques  wearily  turned  his  head  away  towards 
the  cage  where  his  canary  was  beginning  to  pipe 
its  evening  lay. 

"It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  in  the  end,"  he 
said  pensively;  and  then  he  who  had  been  so  quiet 
since  he  came  to  the  little  hotel — Glozel's,  it  was 
called — began  to  move  about  the  room  excitedly, 
running  his  fingers  through  his  still  bushy  hair, 
which,  to  his  credit,  was  always  as  clean  as  could  be, 
burnished  and  shiny  even  at  his  mid-century  period. 
He  began  murmuring  to  himself,  and  a  frown  settled 
on  his  forehead.  Mme.  Glozel  saw  that  she  had 
perturbed  him,  and  that  no  doubt  she  had  roused 
some  memories  which  made  sombre  the  sunny  little 
room  where  the  canary  sang;  where,  to  ravish  the 
eyes  of  the  pessimist,  was  a  picture  of  Louis  XVI. 
going  to  heaven  in  the  arms  of  St.  Peter. 

When  started,  however,  the  good  woman  could  no 

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If  she  had  known  in  time 


more  "slow  down"  than  her  French  pony  would 
stop  when  its  head  was  turned  homewards  from 
market.  So  she  kept  on  with  the  history  of  the 
woman  down  the  street. 

"Heart  disease,"  she  said,  nodding  with  assurance 
and  finality;  "and  we  know  what  that  is — a  start, 
a  shock,  a  fall,  a  strain,  and  pht!  off  the  poor  thing 
goes.  Yes,  heart  disease,  and  sometimes  with  such 
awful  pain.  But  so;  and  yesterday  she  told  me 
she  had  only  a  hundred  dollars  left.  'Enough  to 
last  me  through,'  she  said  to  me.  Poor  thing,  she 
lifted  up  her  eyes  with  a  way  she  has,  as  if  looking 
for  something  she  couldn't  find,  and  she  says,  as 
simple  as  though  she  was  asking  about  the  price  of  a 
bed-tick,  'It  won't  cost  more  than  fifty  dollars  to 
bury  me,  I  s'pose?'  Well,  that  made  me  squeamish, 
for  the  poor  dear's  plight  came  home  to  me  so  clear, 
and  she  young  enough  yet  to  get  plenty  out  of  life, 
if  she  had  the  chance.  So  I  asked  her  again  about 
her  people  —  whether  I  couldn't  send  for  someone 
belonging  to  her.  'There's  none  that  belongs  to 
me,'  she  says,  'and  there's  no  one  I  belong  to.' 

"I  thought  very  likely  she  didn't  want  to  tell  me 
about  herself ;  perhaps  because  she  had  done  wrong, 
and  her  family  had  not  been  good  to  her.  Yet  it 
was  right  I  should  try  and  get  her  folks  to  come,  if 
she  had  any  folks.  So  I  said  to  her,  'Where  was 
your  home?'  And  now,  what  do'  you  think  she 
answered,  m'sieu'?  'Look  there,'  she  said  to  me, 
with  her  big  eyes  standing  out  of  her  head  almost — 
for  that's  what  comes  to  her  sometimes  when  she 
is  in  pain,  and  she  looks  more  handsome  then  than 

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at  any  other  time — 'Look  there,'  she  said  to  me, 
'it  was  in  heaven,  that's  where  my  home  was;  but 
I  didn't  know  it.  I  hadn't  been  taught  to  know  the 
place  when  I  saw  it.' 

"Well,  I  felt  my  skin  go  goosey,  for  I  saw  what 
was  going  on  in  her  mind,  and  how  she  was  remem- 
bering what  had  happened  to  her  some  time,  some- 
where; but  there  wasn't  a  tear  in  her  eyes,  and  I 
never  saw  her  cry — never  once,  m'sieu' — well,  but 
as  brave  as  brave.  Her  eyes  are  always  dry — burn- 
ing. They're  like  two  furnaces  scorching  up  her 
face.  So  I  never  found  out  her  history,  and  she 
won't  have  the  priest.  I  believe  that's  because  she 
wants  to  die  unknown,  and  doesn't  want  to  confess. 
I  never  saw  a  woman  I  was  sorrier  for,  though  I 
think  she  wasn't  married  to  the  man  that  left  her. 
But  whatever  she  was,  there's  good  in  her — I  haven't 
known  hundreds  of  women  and  had  seven  sisters  for 
nothing.  Well,  there  she  is — not  a  friend  near  her 
at  the  last;  for  it's  coming  soon,  the  end — no  one 
to  speak  to  her,  except  the  woman  she  pays  to  come 
in  and  look  after  her  and  nurse  her  a  bit.  Of  course 
there's  the  landlady  too,  Madame  Popincourt,  a  kind 
enough  little  cricket  of  a  woman,  but  with  no  sense 
and  no  head  for  business.  And  so  the  poor  sick 
thing  has  not  a  single  pleasure  in  the  world.  She 
can't  read,  because  it  makes  her  head  ache,  she  says; 
and  she  never  writes  to  anyone.  One  day  she  tried 
to  sing  a  little,  but  it  seemed  to  hurt  her,  and  she 
stopped  before  she  had  begun  almost.  Yes,  m'sieu', 
there  she  is  without  a  single  pleasure  in  the  long 
hours  when  she  doesn't  sleep." 

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If  she  had  known  in  time 


"There's  my  canary — that  would  cheer  her  up," 
eagerly  said  Jean  Jacques,  who,  as  the  story  of  the 
chirruping  landlady  continued,  became  master  of 
his  agitation,  and  listened  as  though  to  the  tale  of 
some  life  for  which  he  had  concern.  "Yes,  take  my 
canary  to  her,  madame.  It  picked  me  up  when  I 
was  down.  It  11  help  her — such  a  bird  it  is!  It's 
the  best  singer  in  the  world.  It's  got  in  its  throat 
the  music  of  Malibran  and  Jenny  Lind  and  Grisi, 
and  all  the  stars  in  heaven  that  sang  together.  Also, 
to  be  sure,  it  doesn't  charge  anything,  but  just  as 
long  as  there's  daylight  it  sings  and  sings,  as  you 
know." 

"M'sieu' — oh,  m'sieu',  it  was  what  I  wanted  to 
ask  you,  and  I  didn't  dare!"  gushingly  declared 
madame.  "I  never  heard  a  bird  sing  like  that — 
just  as  if  it  knew  how  much  good  it  was  doing,  and 
with  all  the  airs  of  a  grand  seigneur.  It's  a  prince 
of  birds,  that.  If  you  mean  it,  m'sieu',  you'll  do  as 
good  a  thing  as  you  have  ever  done." 

"It  would  have  to  be  much  better,  or  it  wouldn't 
be  any  use,"  remarked  Jean  Jacques. 

The  woman  made  a  motion  of  friendliness  with 
both  hands.  "I  don't  believe  that.  You  may  be 
queer,  but  you've  got  a  kind  eye.  It  won't  be  for 
long  she'll  need  the  canary,  and  it  will  cheer  her. 
There  certainly  was  never  a  bird  so  little  tied  to 
one  note.  Now  this  note,  now  that,  and  so  amus- 
ing. At  times  it's  as  though  he  was  laughing  at 
you." 

"That's  because,  with  me  for  his  master,  he  has 
had  good  reason  to  laugh,"  remarked  Jean  Jacques, 

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The  Money  Master 


who  had  come  at  last  to  take  a  despondent  view  of 
himself. 

"That's  bosh,"  rejoined  Mme.  Glozel;  "I've  seen 
several  people  odder  than  you." 

She  went  over  to  the  cage  eagerly,  and  was  about 
to  take  it  away.  "Excuse  me,"  interposed  Jean 
Jacques,  "I  will  carry  the  cage  to  the  house.  Then 
you  will  go  in  with  the  bird,  and  I'll  wait  outside 
and  see  if  the  little  rascal  sings." 

"This  minute?"  asked  madame. 

"For  sure,  this  very  minute.  Why  should  the 
poor  lady  wait?  It's  a  lonely  time  of  day,  this, 
the  evening,  when  the  long  night's  ahead." 

A  moment  later  the  two  were  walking  along  the 
street  to  the  door  of  Mme.  Popincourt's  lodgings, 
and  people  turned  to  look  at  the  pair,  one  carrying 
something  covered  with  a  white  cloth, — evidently  a 
savoury  dish  of  some  kind — the  other  with  a  cage 
in  which  a  handsome  canary  hopped  about,  well 
pleased  with  the  world. 

At  Mme.  Popincourt's  door  Mme.  Glozel  took 
the  cage  and  went  upstairs.  Jean  Jacques,  left 
behind,  paced  backwards  and  forwards  in  front 
of  the  house  waiting  and  looking  up,  for  Mme. 
Glozel  had  said  that  behind  the  front  window  on 
the  third  floor  was  where  the  sick  woman  lived.  He 
had  not  long  to  wait.  The  setting  sun  shining  full 
on  the  window  had  roused  the  bird,  and  he  began 
to  pour  out  a  flood  of  delicious  melody  which  flowed 
on  and  on,  causing  the  people  in  the  street  to  stay 
their  steps  and  look  up.  Jean  Jacques'  face,  as  he 

300 


If  she  had  known  in  time 


listened,  had  something  very  like  a  smile.  There 
was  that  in  the  smile  belonging  to  the  old  pride, 
which  in  days  gone  by  had  made  him  say  when  he 
looked  at  his  domains  at  the  Manor  Cartier — his 
houses,  his  mills,  his  store,  his  buildings  and  his  lands 
— "It  is  all  mine.  It  all  belongs  to  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille." 

Suddenly,  however,  there  came  a  sharp  pause  in 
the  singing,  and  after  that  a  cry — a  faint,  startled 
cry.  Then  Mme.  Glozel's  head  was  thrust  out  of 
the  window  three  floors  up,  and  she  called  to  Jean 
Jacques  to  come  quickly.  As  she  bade  him  come, 
some  strange  premonition  flashed  to  Jean  Jacques, 
and  with  thumping  heart  he  hastened  up  the  stair- 
case. Outside  a  bedroom  door,  Mme.  Glozel  met 
him.  She  was  so  excited  she  could  only  whisper. 

"Be  very  quiet,"  she  said.  "There  is  something 
strange.  When  the  bird  sang  as  it  did — you  heard 
it — she  sat  like  one  in  a  trance.  Then  her  face  took 
on  a  look  glad  and  frightened  too,  and  she  stared 
hard  at  the  cage.  'Bring  that  cage  to  me,'  she 
said.  I  brought  it.  She  looked  sharp  at  it,  then 
she  gave  a  cry  and  fell  back.  As  I  took  the 
cage  away  I  saw  what  she  had  been  looking  at — 
a  writing  at  the  bottom  of  the  cage.  It  was  the 
name  Carmen." 

With  a  stifled  cry  Jean  Jacques  pushed  her  aside 
and  entered  the  room.  As  he  did  so,  the  sick  woman 
in  the  big  armchair,  so  pale  yet  so  splendid  in  her 
death-beauty,  raised  herself  up.  With  eyes  that 
Francesca  might  have  turned  to  the  vision  of  her 
fate,  she  looked  at  the  opening  door,  as  though  to 

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The  Money  Master 


learn  if  he  who  came  was  one  she  had  wished  to 
see  through  long,  relentless  days. 

"Jean  Jacques — ah,  my  beautiful  Jean  Jacques!" 
she  cried  out  presently  in  a  voice  like  a  wisp  of 
sound,  for  she  had  little  breath;  and  then  with  a 
smile  she  sank  back,  too  late  to  hear,  but  not  too 
late  to  know,  what  Jean  Jacques  said  to  her. 


EPOCH    THE    FIFTH 


CHAPTER  XXII 

BELLS    OF    MEMORY 

TTOWEVER  far  Jean  Jacques  went,  however 
*  1  long  the  day  since  leaving  the  Manor  Cartier, 
he  could  not  escape  the  signals  from  his  past.  He 
heard  more  than  once  the  bells  of  memory  ringing  at 
the  touch  of  the  invisible  hand  of  Destiny  which 
accepts  no  philosophy  save  its  own.  At  Montreal, 
for  one  hallowed  instant,  he  had  regained  his  lost 
Carmen,  but  he  had  turned  from  her  grave — the 
only  mourners  being  himself,  Mme.  Glozel  and  Mme. 
Popincourt,  together  with  a  barber  who  had  coiffed 
her  wonderful  hair  once  a  week — with  a  strange  burn- 
ing at  his  heart.  That  iceberg  which  most  mourners 
carry  in  their  breasts  was  not  his,  as  he  walked  down 
the  mountain-side  from  Carmen's  grave.  Behind 
him  trotted  Mme.  Glozel  and  Mme.  Popincourt,  like 
little  magpies,  attendants  on  this  eagle  of  sorrow 
whose  life-love  had  been  laid  to  rest,  her  heart- 
troubles  over.  Passion  or  ennui  would  no  more 
vex  her. 

She  had  had  a  soul,  had  Carmen  Dolores,  though 
she  had  never  known  it  till  her  days  closed  in  on  her, 
and  from  the  dusk  she  looked  out  of  the  casements 

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The  Money  Master 


of  life  to  such  a  glowing  as  Jean  Jacques  had  seen 
when  his  burning  mill  beatified  the  evening  sky. 
She  had  known  passion  and  vivid  life  in  the  days 
when  she  went  hand-in-hand  with  Carvillho  Gon- 
zales  through  the  gardens  of  Granada;  she  had 
known  the  smothering  home-sickness  which  does 
not  alone  mean  being  sick  for  a  distant  home,  but 
a  sickness  of  the  home  that  is;  and  she  had  known 
what  George  Masson  gave  her  for  one  thrilling  hour, 
and  then — then  the  man  who  left  her  in  her  death- 
year,  taking  not  only  the  last  thread  of  hope  which 
held  her  to  life.  This  vulture  had  taken  also  little 
things  dear  to  her  daily  life,  such  as  the  ring  Car- 
villho Gonzales  had  given  her  long  ago  in  Cadiz, 
also  another  ring,  a  gift  of  Jean  Jacques,  and  things 
less  valuable  to  her,  such  as  money,  for  which  she 
knew  surely  she  would  have  no  long  use. 

As  she  lay  waiting  for  the  day  when  she  must  go 
from  the  garish  scene,  she  unconsciously  took  stock 
of  life  in  her  own  way.  There  intruded  on  her  sight 
the  stages  of  the  theatres  where  she  had  played  and 
danced,  and  she  heard  again  the  music  of  the  paloma 
and  those  other  Spanish  airs  which  had  made  the 
world  dance  under  her  girl's  feet  long  ago.  At  first 
she  kept  seeing  the  faces  of  thousands  looking  up  at 
her  from  the  stalls,  down  at  her  from  the  gallery, 
over  at  her  from  the  boxes;  and  the  hot  breath  of 
that  excitement  smote  her  face  with  a  drunken  odour 
that  sent  her  mad.  Then,  alas!  somehow,  as  dis- 
ease took  hold  of  her,  there  were  the  colder  lights, 
the  colder  breath  from  the  few  who  applauded  so 
little.  And  always  the  man  who  had  left  her  in 

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Bells  of  memory 


her  day  of  direst  need;  who  had  had  the  last  warm 
fires  of  her  life,  the  last  brief  outrush  of  her  soul, 
eager  as  it  was  for  a  joy  which  would  prove  she  had 
not  lost  all  when  she  fled  from  the  Manor  Cartier — 
a  joy  which  would  make  her  forget! 

What  she  really  did  feel  in  this  last  adventure  of 
passion  only  made  her  remember  the  more  when  she 
was  alone  now,  her  life  at  the  Manor  Cartier.  She 
was  wont  to  wake  up  suddenly  in  the  morning — 
the  very  early  morning — with  the  imagined  sound 
of  the  gold  Cock  of  Beaugard  crowing  in  her  ears. 
Memory,  memory,  memory — yet  never  a  word,  and 
never  a  hearsay  of  what  had  happened  at  the  Manor 
Cartier  since  she  had  left  it !  Then  there  came  a  time 
when  she  longed  intensely  to  see  Jean  Jacques  before 
she  died,  though  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  send 
word  to  him.  She  dreaded  what  the  answer  might 
be — not  Jean  Jacques'  answer,  but  the  answer  of 
Life.  Jean  Jacques  and  her  child,  her  Zoe — more 
his  than  hers  in  years  gone  by — one  or  both  might 
be  dead!  She  dared  not  write,  but  she  cherished  a 
desire  long  denied.  Then  one  day  she  saw  every- 
thing in  her  life  more  clearly  than  she  had  ever 
done.  She  found  an  old  book  of  French  verse, 
once  belonging  to  Mme.  Popincourt's  husband,  who 
had  been  a  professor.  Some  lines  therein  opened 
up  a  chamber  of  her  being  never  before  unlocked. 
At  first  only  the  feeling  of  the  thing  came,  then 
slowly  the  spiritual  meaning  possessed  her.  She 
learnt  it  by  heart  and  let  it  sing  to  her  as  she  lay 
half-sleeping  and  half-waking,  half-living  and  half- 
dying  ; 

307 


The  Money  Master 


"There  is  a  World;  men  compass  it  through  tears, 

Dare  doom  for  joy  of  it;  it  called  me  o'er  the  foam; 
I  found  it  down  the  track  of  sundering  years, 
Beyond  the  long  island  where  the  sea  steals  home. 

"A  land  that  triumphs  over  shame  and  pain, 

Penitence  and  passion  and  the  parting  breath, 
Over  the  former  and  the  latter  rain, 
The  birth-morn  fire  and  the  frost  of  death. 

"From  its  safe  shores  the  white  boats  ride  away, 
Salving  the  wreckage  of  the  portless  ships — 
The  light  desires  of  the  amorous  day, 
The  wayward,  wanton  wastage  of  the  lips. 

"Star-mist  and  music  and  the  pensive  moon — 

These  when  I  harboured  at  that  perfumed  shore; 
And  then,  how  soon!  the  radiance  of  noon, 
And  faces  of  dear  children  at  the  door. 

"Land  of  the  Greater  Love — men  call  it  this; 
No  light-o'-love  sets  here  an  ambuscade; 
No  tender  torture  of  the  secret  kiss 
Makes  sick  the  spirit  and  the  soul  afraid. 

"Bright  bowers  and  the  anthems  of  the  free, 

The  lovers  absolute — ah,  hear  the  call! 
Beyond  the  long  island  and  the  sheltering  sea, 
That  World  I  found  which  holds  my  world  in  thrall. 

"There  is  a  World;  men  compass  it  through  tears, 

Dare  doom  for  joy  of  it;  it  called  me  o'er  the  foam; 
I  found  it  down  the  track  of  sundering  years, 
Beyond  the  long  island  where  the  sea  steals  home." 

At  last  the  inner  thought  of  it  got  into  her  heart, 
and  then  it  was  in  reply  to  Mme.  Glozel,  who  asked 
her  where  her  home  was,  she  said:  "In  Heaven,  but 

308 


Bells  of  memory 


I  did  not  know  it!"  And  thus  it  was,  too,  that  at 
the  very  last,  when  Jean  Jacques  followed  the  sing- 
ing-bird into  her  death-chamber,  she  cried  out,  "Ah, 
my  beautiful  Jean  Jacques!" 

And  because  Jean  Jacques  knew  that,  at  the  last, 
she  had  been  his,  soul  and  body,  he  went  down  from 
the  mountain-side,  the  two  black  magpies  fluttering 
mournfully  and  yet  hopefully  behind  him,  with  more 
warmth  at  his  heart  than  he  had  known  for  years. 
It  never  occurred  to  him  that  the  two  elderly  magpies 
would  jointly  or  severally  have  given  the  rest  of 
their  lives  and  their  scant  fortunes  to  have  him  with 
them  either  as  husband,  or  as  one  who  honourably 
hires  a  home  at  so  much  a  day. 

Though  Jean  Jacques  did  not  know  this  last  fact, 
when  he  fared  forth  again  he  left  behind  his  canary 
with  Mme.  Glozel;  also  all  Carmen's  clothes,  except 
the  dress  she  died  in,  he  gave  to  Mme.  Popincourt, 
on  condition  that  she  did  not  wear  them  till  he  had 
gone.  The  dress  in  which  Carmen  died  he  wrapped 
up  carefully,  with  her  few  jewels  and  her  wedding- 
ring,  and  gave  the  parcel  to  Mme.  Glozel  to  care  for 
till  he  should  send  for  it  or  come  again. 

"The  bird — take  him  on  my  birthday  to  sing  at 
her  grave,"  he  said  to  Mme.  Glozel  just  before  he 
went  West.  "It  is  in  summer,  my  birthday,  and 
you  shall  hear  how  he  will  sing  there,"  he  added  in  a 
low  voice  at  the  very  door.  Then  he  took  out  a 
ten-dollar  bill,  and  would  have  given  it  to  her  to  do 
this  thing  for  him;  but  she  would  have  none  of  his 
money.  She  only  wiped  her  eyes  and  deplored  his 
going,  and  said  that  if  ever  he  wanted  a  home,  and 

3°9 


The  Money  Master 


she  was  alive,  he  would  know  where  to  find  it.  It 
sounded  and  looked  sentimental,  yet  Jean  Jacques 
was  never  less  sentimental  in  a  very  sentimental 
life.  This  particular  morning  he  was  very  quiet  and 
grave,  and  not  in  the  least  agitated;  he  spoke  like 
one  from  a  friendly,  sub-bright  distance  to  Mme. 
Glozel,  and  also  to  Mme.  Popincourt  as  he  passed 
her  at  the  door  of  her  house. 

Jean  Jacques  had  no  elation  as  he  took  the  West- 
ern trail;  there  was  not  much  hope  in  his  voice; 
but  there  was  purpose  and  there  was  a  little  stream 
of  peace  flowing  through  his  being — and  also, 
mark,  a  stream  of  anger  tumbling  over  rough  places. 
He  had  read  two  letters  addressed  to  Carmen  by  the 
man — Hugo  Stolphe — who  had  left  her  to  her  fate; 
and  there  was  a  grim  devouring  thing  in  him  which 
would  break  loose,  if  ever  the  man  crossed  his  path. 
He  would  not  go  hunting  him,  but  if  he  passed  him 

or  met  him  on  the  way !  Still  he  would  go 

hunting — to  find  his  Carmencita,  his  little  Carmen, 
his  Zo6  whom  he  had  unwittingly,  God  knew! 
driven  forth  into  the  far  world  of  the  millions 
of  acres  —  a  wide,  wide  hunting-ground  in  good 
sooth. 

So  he  left  his  beloved  province  where  he  no  longer 
had  a  home,  and  though  no  letters  came  to  him  from 
St.  Saviour's,  from  Vilray  or  the  Manor  Carder,  yet 
he  heard  the  bells  of  memory  when  the  Hand  In- 
visible arrested  his  footsteps.  One  day  these  bells 
rang  so  loud  he  would  have  heard  them  were  he 
sunk  in  the  world's  deepest  well  of  shame:  but,  as  it 
was,  he  now  marched  on  hills  far  higher  than  the 

310 


Bells  of  memory 


passes  through  the  mountains  which  his  patch- 
work philosophy  had  ever  provided. 

It  was  in  the  town  of  Shilah  on  the  Watloon  River 
that  the  bells  boomed  out — not  because  he  had  en- 
countered one  he  had  ever  known  far  down  by  the 
Beau  Cheval,  or  in  his  glorious  province,  not  because 
he  had  found  his  Zoe,  but  because  a  man,  the  man — 
not  George  Masson,  but  the  other — met  him  in  the 
way. 

Shilah  was  a  place  to  which,  almost  unconsciously, 
he  had  deviated  his  course,  because  once  Virginie 
Poucette  had  read  him  a  letter  from  there.  That 
was  in  the  office  of  the  little  Clerk  of  the  Court  at 
Vilray.  The  letter  was  from  Virginie 's  sister  at 
Shilah,  and  told  him  that  Zoe  and  her  husband  had 
gone  away  into  farther  fields  of  homelessness.  Thus 
it  was  that  Shilah  ever  seemed  to  him,  as  he  worked 
West,  a  goal  in  his  quest — not  the  last  goal  perhaps, 
but  a  goal.  He  had  been  far  past  it  by  another 
route,  up,  up  and  out  into  the  more  scattered  settle- 
ments, and  now  at  last  he  had  come  to  it  again, 
having  completed  a  kind  of  circle.  As  he  entered 
it,  the  past  crowded  on  to  him  with  a  hundred  pictures. 
Shilah — it  was  where  Virginie  Poucette's  sister  lived; 
Virginie  had  been  a  part  of  the  great  revelation  of 
his  life  at  St.  Saviour's. 

As  he  was  walking  by  the  riverside  at  Shilah,  a 
woman  spoke  to  him,  touching  his  arm  as  she  did  so. 
He  was  in  a  deep  dream  as  she  spoke,  but  there  cer- 
tainly was  a  look  in  her  face  that  reminded  him  of 
someone  belonging  to  the  old  life.  For  an  instant 


The  Money  Master 


he  could  not  remember.  For  a  moment  he  did  not 
even  realize  that  he  was  at  Shilah.  His  meditation 
had  almost  been  a  trance,  and  it  took  him  time  to 
adjust  himself  to  the  knowledge  of  the  conscious 
mind.  His  subconsciousness  was  very  powerfully 
alive  in  these  days.  There  was  not  the  same  cease- 
lessly active  eye,  nor  the  vibration  of  the  impatient 
body  which  belonged  to  the  money-master  and  miller 
of  the  Manor  Cartier.  Yet  the  eye  had  more  depth 
and  force,  and  the  body  was  more  powerful  and 
vigorous  than  it  had  ever  been.  The  long  tramping, 
the  everlasting  trail  on  false  scents,  the  mental 
battling  with  troubles  past  and  present,  had  given 
a  fortitude  and  vigour  to  the  body  beyond  what 
it  had  ever  known.  In  spite  of  his  homelessness 
and  pilgrim  equipment  he  looked  as  though  he  had 
a  home — far  off.  The  eyes  did  not  smile;  but  the 
lips  showed  the  goodness  of  his  heart — and  its  hard- 
ness too.  Hardness  had  never  been  there  in  the  old 
days.  It  was,  however,  the  hardness  of  resentment, 
and  not  of  cruelty.  It  was  not  his  wife's  or  his 
daughter's  flight  that  he  resented,  nor  yet  the  loss 
of  all  he  had,  nor  the  injury  done  him  by  Sebastian 
Dolores.  No,  his  resentment  was  against  one  he 
had  never  seen,  but  was  now  soon  to  see.  As  his 
mind  came  back  from  the  far  places  where  it  had 
been,  and  his  eyes  returned  to  the  concrete  world,  he 
saw  what  the  woman  recalled  to  him.  It  was — yes, 
it  was  Virginie  Poucette — the  kind  and  beautiful  Vir- 
ginie — for  her  goodness  had  made  him  remember  her 
as  beautiful,  though  indeed  she  was  but  comely,  like 
this  woman  who  stayed  him  as  he  walked  by  the  river. 

312 


Bells  of  memory 


"You  are  M'sieu'  Jean  Jacques  Barbille?"  she 
said  questioningly. 

"How  did  you  know?"  he  asked.  .  .  .  "Is  Vir- 
ginie  Poucette  here?" 

"Ah,  you  knew  me  from  her?"  she  asked. 

"There  was  something  about  her — and  you  have 
it  also — and  the  look  in  the  eyes,  and  then  the 
lips!"  he  replied. 

Certainly  they  were  quite  wonderful,  luxurious 
lips,  and  so  shapely  too — like  those  of  Virginie. 

"But  how  did  you  know  I  was  Jean  Jacques  Bar- 
bille?" he  repeated. 

"Well,  then,  it  is  quite  easy,"  she  replied  with  a 
laugh  almost  like  a  giggle,  for  she  was  quite  as  sim- 
ple and  primitive  as  her  sister.  "There  is  a  pho- 
tographer at  Vilray,  and  Virginie  got  one  of  your 
pictures  there,  and  sent  it  to  me.  'He  may  come 
your  way,'  said  Virginie  to  me,  'and  if  he  does,  do 
not  forget  that  he  is  my  friend.'  " 

"That  she  is  my  friend,"  corrected  Jean  Jacques. 
"And  what  a  friend — merci,  what  a  friend!"  Sud- 
denly he  caught  the  woman's  arm.  "You  once  wrote 
to  your  sister  about  my  Zo6,  my  daughter,  that 
married  and  ran  away " 

"That  ran  away  and  got  married,"  she  interrupted. 

"Is  there  any  more  news — tell  me,  do  you 
know ?"  (* 

But  Virginie's  sister  shook  her  head.  "Only 
once  since  I  wrote  Virginie  have  I  heard,  and  then 
the  two  poor  children — but  how  helpless  they  were, 
clinging  to  each  other  so!  Well,  then,  once  I  heard 
from  Faragay,  but  that  was  much  more  than  a  year 


The  Money  Master 


ago.  Nothing  since,  and  they  were  going  on — on  to 
Fort  Providence  to  spend  the  winter — for  his  health 
— his  lungs." 

"What  to  do — on  what  to  live?"  moaned  Jean 
Jacques. 

"His  grandmother  sent  him  a  thousand  dollars, 
so  your  Madame  Zo6  wrote  me." 

Jean  Jacques  raised  a  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
emotion.  "Ah,  the  blessed  woman!  May  there  be 
no  purgatory  for  her,  but  Heaven  at  once  and 
always!" 

"Come  home  with  me — where  are  your  things?" 
she  asked. 

"I  have  only  a  knapsack,"  he  replied.  "It  is  not 
far  from  here.  But  I  cannot  stay  with  you.  I  have 
no  claim.  No,  I  will  not,  for— 

"As  to  that,  we  keep  a  tavern,"  she  returned. 
"You  can  come  the  same  as  the  rest  of  the  world. 
The  company  is  mixed,  but  there  it  is.  You 
needn't  eat  off  the  same  plate,  as  they  say  in 
Quebec." 

Quebec!  He  looked  at  her  with  the  face  of  one 
who  saw  a  vision.  How  like  Virginie  Poucette — 
the  brave,  generous  Virginie — how  like  she  was ! 

In  silence  now  he  went  with  her,  and  seeing  his 
mood  she  did  not  talk  to  him.  People  stared  as 
they  walked  along,  for  his  dress  was  curious  and  his 
head  was  bare,  and  his  hair  like  the  coat  of  a  young 
lion.  Besides,  this  woman  was,  in  her  way,  as  brave 
and  as  generous  as  Virginie  Poucette.  In  the  very 
doorway  of  the  tavern  by  the  river  a  man  jostled 
them.  He  did  not  apologize.  He  only  leered.  It 

3H 


Bells  of  memory 


made  his  foreign-looking,  coarsely  handsome  face 
detestable. 

"Pig!"  exclaimed  Virginie  Poucette's  sister. 
"That's  a  man — well,  look  out!  There's  trouble 
brewing  for  him.  If  he  only  knew!  If  suspicion 
comes  out  right  and  it's  proved — well,  there,  he'll 
jostle  the  door-jamb  of  a  jail." 

Jean  Jacques  stared  after  the  man,  and  somehow 
every  nerve  in  his  body  became  angry.  He  had  all 
at  once  a  sense  of  hatred.  He  shook  the  shoulder 
against  which  the  man  had  collided.  He  remem- 
bered the  leer  on  the  insolent,  handsome  face. 

"I'd  like  to  see  him  thrown  into  the  river,"  said 
Virginie  Poucette's  sister.  "We  have  a  nice  girl 
here — come  from  Ireland — as  good  as  can  be.  Well, 
last  night — but  there,  she  oughtn't  to  have  let  him 
speak  to  her.  'A  kiss  is  nothing,'  he  said.  Well, 
if  he  kissed  me  I  would  kill  him — if  I  didn't  vomit 
myself  to  death  first.  He's  a  mongrel — a  South 
American  mongrel  with  nigger  blood." 

Jean  Jacques  kept  looking  after  the  man.  "Why 
don't  you  turn  him  out?"  he  asked  sharply. 

"He's  going  away  to-morrow  anyhow,"  she  re- 
plied. "Besides,  the  girl,  she's  so  ashamed — and 
she  doesn't  want  anyone  to  know.  'Who'd  want  to 
kiss  me  after  him!'  she  said,  and  so  he  stays  till  to- 
morrow. He's  not  in  the  tavern  itself,  but  in  the 
little  annex  next  door — there,  where  he's  going  now. 
He's  only  had  his  meals  here,  though  the  annex 
belongs  to  us  as  well.  He's  alone  there  on  his  dung- 
hill." 

She  brought  Jean  Jacques  into  a  room  that  over- 


The  Money  Master 


looked  the  river — which,  indeed,  hung  on  its  very 
brink.  From  the  steps  at  its  river-door,  a  little 
ferry-boat  took  people  to  the  other  side  of  the 
Watloon,  and  very  near — just  a  few  handbreadths 
away — was  the  annex  where  was  the  man  who  had 
jostled  Jean  Jacques. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

JEAN  JACQUES   HAS   WORK  TO   DO 

A  SINGLE  lighted  lamp,  turned  low,  was  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling  of  the  raftered  room, 
and  through  the  open  doorway  which  gave  on  to  a 
little  wooden  piazza  with  a  slight  railing  and  small, 
shaky  gate  came  the  swish  of  the  Watloon  River. 
No  moon  was  visible,  but  the  stars  were  radiant  and 
alive — trembling  with  life.  There  was  something 
soothing,  something  endlessly  soothing  in  the  sound 
of  the  river.  It  suggested  the  ceaseless  movement 
of  life  to  the  final  fulness  thereof. 

So  still  was  the  room  that  it  might  have  seemed 
to  be  without  life,  were  it  not  for  a  faint  sound  of 
breathing.  The  bed,  however,  was  empty,  and  no 
chair  was  occupied;  but  on  a  settle  in  a  corner  be- 
side an  unused  fireplace  sat  a  man,  now  with  hands 
clasped  between  his  knees,  again  with  arms  folded 
across  his  breast;  but  with  his  head  always  in  a 
listening  attitude.  The  whole  figure  suggested  sus- 
pense, vigilance  and  preparedness.  The  man  had 
taken  off  his  boots  and  stockings,  and  his  bare  feet 
seemed  to  grip  the  floor;  also  the  sleeves  of  his 
jacket  were  rolled  up  a  little.  It  was  not  a  figure 
you  would  wish  to  see  in  your  room  at  midnight  un- 

317 


The  Money  Master 


asked.  Once  or  twice  he  sighed  heavily,  as  he  lis- 
tened to  the  river  slishing  past  and  looked  out  to 
the  sparkle  of  the  skies.  It  was  as  though  the  in- 
finite had  drawn  near  to  the  man,  or  else  that  the 
man  had  drawn  near  to  the  infinite.  Now  and  again 
he  brought  his  fists  down  on  his  knees  with  a  sav- 
age, though  noiseless,  force.  The  peace  of  the  river 
and  the  night  could  not  contend  successfully  against 
a  dark  spirit  working  in  him.  When,  during  his 
vigil,  he  shook  his  shaggy  head  and  his  lips  opened 
on  his  set  teeth,  he  seemed  like  one  who  would  take 
toll  at  a  gateway  of  forbidden  things. 

He  started  to  his  feet  at  last,  hearing  footsteps 
outside  upon  the  stairs.  Then  he  settled  back  again, 
drawing  near  to  the  chimney-wall,  so  that  he  should 
not  be  easily  seen  by  anyone  entering.  Presently 
there  was  the  click  of  a  latch,  then  the  door  opened 
and  shut,  and  cigar-smoke  invaded  the  room. 
An  instant  later  a  hand  went  up  to  the  suspended 
oil-lamp  and  twisted  the  wick  into  brighter  flame. 
As  it  did  so,  there  was  a  slight  noise,  then  the  click 
of  a  lock.  Turning  sharply,  the  man  under  the 
lamp  saw  at  the  door  the  man  who  had  been  sitting 
in  the  corner.  The  man  had  a  key  in  his  hand.  Exit 
now  could  only  be  had  through  the  door  opening 
on  to  the  river. 

"Who  are  you?  What  the  hell  do  you  want 
here?"  asked  the  fellow  under  the  lamp,  his  swarthy 
face  drawn  with  fear  and  yet  frowning  with  anger. 

"Me — I  am  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,"  said  the  other 
in  French,  putting  the  key  of  the  door  in  his  pocket. 

The  other  replied  in  French,  with  a  Spanish-English) 
318 


Jean  Jacques  has  work  to  do 


accent.  "Barbille — Carmen's  husband!  Well,  who 
would  have  thought !" 

He  ended  with  a  laugh  not  pleasant  to  hear,  for 
it  was  coarse  with  sardonic  mirth ;  yet  it  had  also  an 
unreasonable  apprehension;  for  why  should  he  fear 
the  husband  of  the  woman  who  had  done  that 
husband  such  an  injury! 

"She  treated  you  pretty  bad,  didn't  she — not  much 
heart,  had  Carmen!"  he  added. 

"Sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  said  Jean 
Jacques,  motioning  to  two  chairs  by  a  table  at  the 
side  of  the  room.  This  table  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  when  the  man  under  the  lamp  —  Hugo 
Stolphe  was  his  name — had  left  it  last.  Why  had 
the  table  been  moved? 

"Why  should  I  sit  down,  and  what  are  you  doing 
here? — I  want  to  know  that,"  Stolphe  demanded. 

Jean  Jacques'  hands  were  opening  and  shutting. 
"Because  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  If  you  don't 
sit  down,  I'll  give  you  no  chance  at  all.  ...  Sit 
down!" 

Jean  Jacques  was  smaller  than  Stolphe,  but  he 
was  all  whipcord  and  leather;  the  other  was  sleek 
and  soft,  but  powerful  too;  and  he  had  one  of  those 
savage  natures  which  go  blind  with  hatred,  and 
which  fight  like  beasts.  He  glanced  swiftly  round 
the  room. 

"There  is  no  weapon  here,"  said  Jean  Jacques, 
nodding.  "I  have  put  everything  away — so  you 
could  not  hurt  me  if  you  wanted.  ...  Sit  down!" 

To  gain  time  Stolphe  sat  down,  for  he  had  a  fear 
that  Jean  Jacques  was  armed,  and  might  be  a  mad- 

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The  Money  Master 


man  armed — there  were  his  feet  bare  on  the  brown 
painted  boards.  They  looked  so  strange,  so  un- 
canny. He  surely  must  be  a  madman  if  he  wanted 
to  do  harm  to  Hugo  Stolphe;  for  Hugo  Stolphe  had 
only  "kept"  the  woman  who  had  left  her  husband, 
not  because  of  himself,  but  because  of  another  man 
altogether — one  George  Masson.  Had  not  Carmen 
herself  told  him  that  before  she  and  he  lived  together  ? 
What  grudge  could  Carmen's  husband  have  against 
Hugo  Stolphe? 

Jean  Jacques  sat  down  also,  and,  leaning  on  the 
table,  said:  "Once  I  was  a  fool  and  let  the  other 
man  escape — George  Masson  it  was.  Because  of 
what  he  did,  my  wife  left  me." 

His  voice  became  husky,  but  he  shook  his  throat, 
as  it  were,  cleared  it,  and  went  on.  "I  won't  let  you 
go.  I  was  going  to  kill  George  Masson — I  had  him 
like  that!"  He  opened  and  shut  his  hand  with  a 
gesture  of  fierce  possession.  "But  I  did  not  kill 
him.  I  let  him  go.  He  was  so  clever — cleverer 
than  you  will  know  how  to  be.  She  said  to  me — 
my  wife  said  to  me,  when  she  thought  I  had  killed 
him,  'Why  did  you  not  fight  him?  Any  man  would 
have  fought  him.'  That  was  her  view.  She  was 
right — not  to  kill  without  fighting.  That  is  why 
I  did  not  kill  you  at  once  when  I  knew." 

"When  you  knew  what?"  Stolphe  was  staring 
at  the  madman. 

"When  I  knew  you  were  you.  First  I  saw  that 
ring — that  ring  on  your  hand.  It  was  my  wife's. 
I  gave  it  to  her  the  first  New  Year  after  we  married. 
I  saw  it  on  your  hand  when  you  were  drinking  at  the 

320 


Jean  Jacques  has  work  to  do 


bar  next  door.  Then  I  asked  them  your  name.  I 
knew  it.  I  had  read  your  letters  to  my  wife ' 

"Your  wife  once  on  a  time!" 

Jean  Jacques'  eyes  swam  red.  "My  wife  always 
and  always — and  at  the  last  there  in  my  arms." 

Stolphe  temporized.  "I  never  knew  you.  She 
did  not  leave  you  because  of  me.  She  came  to  me 
because — because  I  was  there  for  her  to  come  to,  and 
you  weren't  there.  Why  do  you  want  to  do  me  any 
harm?"  He  still  must  be  careful,  for  undoubtedly 
the  man  was  mad — his  eyes  were  too  bright. 

"You  were  the  death  of  her,"  answered  Jean 
Jacques,  leaning  forward.  "She  was  most  ill — ah, 
who  would  not  have  been  sorry  for  her!  She  was 
poor.  She  had  been  to  you — but  to  live  with  a 
woman  day  by  day,  but  to  be  by  her  side  when  the 
days  are  done,  and  then  one  morning  to  say,  'Au 
revoir  till  supper!'  and  then  go  and  never  come  back, 
and  to  take  money  and  rings  that  belonged  to  her! 
.  .  .  That  was  her  death — that  was  the  end  of 
Carmen  Barbille;  and  it  was  your  fault." 

"You  would  do  me  harm  and  not  hurt  her!  Look 
how  she  treated  you — and  others." 

Jean  Jacques  half  rose  from  his  seat  in  sudden 
rage,  but  he  restrained  himself,  and  sat  down  again. 
"She  had  one  husband — only  one.  It  was  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille.  She  could  only  treat  one  as  she 
treated  me — me,  her  husband.  But  you,  what  had 
you  to  do  with  that!  You  used  her — so!"  He  made 
a  motion  as  though  to  stamp  out  an  insect  with 
his  foot.  "Beautiful,  a  genuis,  sick  and  alone — no 
husband,  no  child,  and  you  used  her  so!  That 

21  321 


The  Money  Master 


is  why  I  shall  kill  you  to-night.  We  will  fight 
for  it." 

Yes,  but  surely  the  man  was  mad,  and  the  thing 
to  do  was  to  humour  him,  to  gain  time.  To  humour 
a  madman — that  is  what  one  always  advised,  there- 
fore Stolphe  would  make  the  pourparler,  as  the 
French  say. 

"Well,  that's  all  right,"  he  rejoined,  "but  how  is 
it  going  to  be  done?  Have  you  got  a  pistol?"  He 
thought  he  was  very  clever,  and  that  he  would  now 
see  whether  Jean  Jacques  Barbille  was  armed.  If 
he  was  not  armed,  well,  then,  there  would  be  the 
chances  in  his  favour;  it  wasn't  easy  to  kill  with 
hands  alone. 

Jean  Jacques  ignored  the  question,  however.  He 
waved  a  hand  impatiently,  as  though  to  dismiss  it. 
"She  was  beautiful  and  splendid;  she  had  been  a 
queen  down  there  in  Quebec.  You  lied  to  her,  and 
she  was  blind  at  first — I  can  see  it  all.  She  believed 
so  easily — but  yes,  always!  There  she  was  what  she 
was,  and  you  were  what  you  are,  not  a  Frenchman, 
not  Catholic,  and  an  American — no,  not  an  American 
— &  South  American.  But  no,  not  quite  a  South 
American,  for  there  was  the  Portuguese  nigger  in 
you — Sit  down!" 

Jean  Jacques  was  on  his  feet  bending  over  the 
enraged  mongrel.  He  had  spoken  the  truth,  and 
Carmen's  last  lover  had  been  stung  as  though  a 
serpent's  tooth  was  in  his  flesh.  Of  all  things  that 
could  be  said  about  him,  that  which  Jean  Jacques 
said  was  the  worst — that  he  was  not  all  white, 
that  he  had  nigger  blood!  Yet  it  was  true;  and 

322 


Jean  Jacques  has  work  to  do 


he  realized  that  Jean  Jacques  must  have  got  his 
information  in  Shilah  itself,  where  he  had  been 
charged  with  it.  Yet,  raging  as  he  was,  and  ready 
to  take  the  Johnny  Crapaud — that  is  the  name  by 
which  he  had  always  called  Carmen's  husband — 
by  the  throat,  h5"was  not  yet  sure  that  Jean  Jacques 
was  not  armed.  He  sat  still  under  an  anger  greater 
than  his  own,  for  there  was  in  it  that  fanaticism 
which  only  the  love  or  hate  of  a  woman  could  breed 
in  a  man's  mind. 

Suddenly  Stolphe  laughed  outright,  a  crackling, 
mirthless,  ironical  laugh;  for  it  really  was  absurdity 
made  sublime  that  this  man,  who  had  been  aban- 
doned by  his  wife,  should  now  want  to  kill  one  who 
had  abandoned  her!  This  outdid  Don  Quixote  over 
and  over. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want?"  he  asked. 

"I  want  you  to  fight,"  said  Jean  Jacques.  "That 
is  the  way.  That  was  Carmen's  view.  You  shall 
have  your  chance  to  live,  but  I  shall  throw  you  in  the 
river,  and  you  can  then  fight  the  river.  The  current 
is  swift,  the  banks  are  steep  and  high  as  a  house 
down  below  there.  Now,  I  am  ready.  .  .  !" 

He  had  need  to  be,  for  Stolphe  was  quick,  kicking 
the  chair  from  beneath  him,  and  throwing  himself 
heavily  on  Jean  Jacques.  He  had  had  his  day  at 
that  in  South  America,  and  as  Jean  Jacques  Barbille 
had  said,  the  water  was  swift  and  deep,  and  the 
banks  of  the  Watloon  high  and  steep! 

But  Jean  Jacques  was  unconscious  of  everything 
save  a  debt  to  be  collected  for  a  woman  he  had 
loved,  a  compensation  which  must  be  taken  in  flesh 

323 


The  Money  Master 


and  blood.  Perhaps  at  the  moment,  as  Stolphe 
had  said  to  himself,  he  was  a  little  mad,  for  all  his 
past,  all  his  plundered,  squandered,  spoiled  life  was 
crying  out  at  him  like  a  hundred  ghosts,  and  he  was 
fighting  with  beasts  at  Ephesus.  An  exaltation 
possessed  him.  Not  since  the  day  when  his  hand 
was  on  the  lever  of  the  flume  with  George  Masson 
below;  not  since  the  day  he  had  turned  his  back 
for  ever  on  the  Manor  Cartier  had  he  been  so  young 
and  so  much  his  old  self — an  egotist,  with  all  the 
blind  confidence  of  his  kind ;  a  dreamer  inflamed  into 
action  with  all  a  mad  dreamer's  wild  power.  He 
was  not  fifty-two  years  of  age,  but  thirty-two  at 
this  moment,  and  all  the  knowledge  got  of  the 
wrestling  river-drivers  of  his  boyhood,  when  he 
had  spent  hours  by  the  river  struggling  with  river- 
champions,  came  back  to  him.  It  was  a  relief  to 
his  sick  soul  to  wrench  and  strain,  and  propel  and 
twist  and  force  onward,  step  by  step,  to  the  door 
opening  on  the  river,  this  creature  who  had  left 
his  Carmen  to  die  alone. 

"No,  you  don't — not  yet.  The  jail  before  the 
river!"  called  a  cool,  sharp,  sour  voice;  and  on 
the  edge  of  the  trembling  platform  overhanging 
the  river,  Hugo  Stolphe  was  dragged  back  from  the 
plunge  downward  he  was  about  to  take,  with  Jean 
Jacques'  hand  at  his  throat. 

Stolphe  had  heard  the  door  of  the  bedroom  forced, 
but  Jean  Jacques  had  not  heard  it;  he  was  only 
conscious  of  hands  dragging  him  back  just  at  the 
moment  of  Stolphe's  deadly  peril. 

324 


Jean  Jacques  has  work  to  do 


"What  is  it?"  asked  Jean  Jacques,  seeing  Stolphe 
in  the  hands  of  two  men,  and  hearing  the  snap  of 
steel. 

"Wanted  for  firing  a  house  for  insurance — wanted 
for  falsifying  the  accounts  of  a  Land  Company — 
wanted  for  his  own  good,  Mr.  Hugo  Stolphe,  C.O.D. 
— collect  on  delivery!"  said  the  officer  of  the  law. 
"And  collected  just  in  time!" 

"We  didn't  mean  to  take  him  till  to-morrow," 
the  officer  added,  "but  out  on  the  river  one  of  us 
saw  this  gladiator  business  here  in  the  red-light  zone, 
and  there  wasn't  any  time  to  lose.  ...  I  don't  know 
what  your  business  with  him  was,"  the  long-mous- 
tached  detective  said  to  Jean  Jacques,  "but  what- 
ever the  grudge  is,  if  you  don't  want  to  appear  in 
court  in  the  morning,  the  walking's  good  out  of  town 
night  or  day — so  long!" 

He  hustled  his  prisoner  out. 

Jean  Jacques  did  not  want  to  appear  in  court,  and 
as  the  walking  was  officially  good  at  dawn,  he  said 
good-bye  to  Virginie  Poucette's  sister  through  the 
crack  of  a  door,  and  was  gone  before  she  could  re- 
strain him. 

"Well,  things  happen  that  way,"  he  said,  as  he 
turned  back  to  look  at  Shilah  before  it  disappeared 
from  view. 

"Ah,  the  poor,  handsome  vaurien!"  the  woman 
at  the  tavern  kept  saying  to  her  husband  all  that 
day;  and  she  could  not  rest  till  she  had  written  to 
Virginie  how  Jean  Jacques  came  to  Shilah  in  the 
evening,  and  went  with  the  dawn. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

• 

JEAN    JACQUES    ENCAMPED 

THE  Young  Doctor  of  Askatoon  had  a  good 
heart,  and  he  was  exercising  it  honourably  one 
winter's  day  near  three  years  after  Jean  Jacques 
had  left  St.  Saviour's. 

"There  are  many  French  Canadians  working  on 
the  railway  now,  and  a  good  many  habitant  farmers 
live  hereabouts,  and  they  have  plenty  of  children- 
why  not  stay  here  and  teach  school?  You  are  a 
Catholic,  of  course,  monsieur?" 

This  is  what  the  Young  Doctor  said  to  one  who 
had  been  under  his  anxious  care  for  a  few,  vivid 
days.  The  little  brown-bearded  man  with  the  grey- 
brown  hair  nodded  in  reply,  but  his  gaze  was  on  the 
billowing  waste  of  snow,  which  stretched  as  far  as 
eye  could  see  to  the  pine-hills  in  the  far  distance. 
He  nodded  assent,  but  it  was  plain  to  be  seen  that 
the  Young  Doctor's  suggestion  was  not  in  tune  with 
his  thought.  His  nod  only  acknowledged  the  rea- 
sonableness of  the  proposal.  In  his  eyes,  however, 
was  the  wanderlust  which  had  possessed  him  for 
three  long  years,  in  which  he  had  been  searching  for 
what  to  him  was  more  than  Eldorado,  for  it  was 
hope  and  home.  Hope  was  all  he  had  left  of  the 

326 


Jean  Jacques  encamped 


assets  which  had  made  him  so  great  a  figure — as  he 
once  thought — in  his  native  parish  of  St.  Saviour's. 
It  was  his  fixed  idea — une  id£efixe,  as  he  himself  said. 
Lands,  mills,  manor,  lime-kilns,  factories,  store,  all 
were  gone,  and  his  wife  Carmen  also  was  gone.  He 
had  buried  her  with  simple  magnificence  in  Mon- 
treal— Mme.  Glozel  had  said  to  her  neighbours  after- 
wards that  the  funeral  cost  over  seventy-five  dollars 
— and  had  set  up  a  stone  to  her  memory  on  which 
was  carved,  "Chez  nous  autrefois,  et  chez  Dieu  main- 
tenant" — which  was  to  say,  "Our  home  once,  and 
God's  Home  now." 

That  done,  with  a  sorrow  which  still  had  the  peace 
of  finality  in  his  mind,  he  had  turned  his  face  to  the 
West.  His  long,  long  sojourning  had  brought  him 
to  Shilah  where  a  new  chapter  of  his  life  was  closed, 
and  at  last  to  Askatoon,  where  another  chapter  still 
closed  an  epoch  in  his  life,  and  gave  finality  to  all. 
There  he  had  been  taken  down  with  congestion  of 
the  lungs,  and,  fainting  at  the  door  of  a  drug-store, 
had  been  taken  possession  of  by  the  Young  Doctor, 
who  would  not  send  him  to  the  hospital.  He  would 
not  send  him  there  because  he  found  inside  the  waist- 
coat of  this  cleanest  tramp — if  he  was  a  tramp — 
that  he  had  ever  seen,  a  book  of  philosophy,  the 
daguerreotype  photo  of  a  beautiful  foreign-looking 
woman,  and  some  verses  in  a  child's  handwriting. 
The  book  of  philosophy  was  underlined  and  inter- 
lined on  every  page,  and  every  margin  had  com- 
ment which  showed  a  mind  of  the  most  singular 
simplicity,  searching  wisdom,  and  hopeless  confu- 
sion, all  in  one. 

327 


The  Money  Master 


The  Young  Doctor  was  a  man  of  decision,  and  he 
had  whisked  the  little  brown-grey  sufferer  to  his 
own  home,  and  tended  him  there  like  a  brother 
till  the  danger  disappeared;  and  behold  he  was  re- 
warded for  his  humanity  by  as  quaint  an  experience 
as  he  had  ever  known.  He  had  not  succeeded— 
though  he  tried  hard — in  getting  at  the  history  of 
his  patient's  life;  but  he  did  succeed  in  reading  the 
fascinating  story  of  a  mind;  for  Jean  Jacques,  if 
not  so  voluble  as  of  yore,  had  still  moments  when  he 
seemed  to  hypnotize  himself,  and  his  thoughts  were 
alive  in  an  atmosphere  of  intellectual  passion  ill  in 
accord  with  his  condition. 

Presently  the  little  brown  man  withdrew  his  eyes 
from  the  window  of  the  Young  Doctor's  office  and 
the  snowy  waste  beyond.  They  had  a  curious  red 
underglow  which  had  first  come  to  them  an  evening 
long  ago,  when  they  caught  from  the  sky  the  re- 
flection of  a  burning  mill.  There  was  distance  and 
the  far  thing  in  that  underglow  of  his  eyes.  It  had 
to  do  with  the  horizon,  not  with  the  place  where  his 
feet  were.  It  said,  "Out  there,  beyond,  is  what  I 
go  to  seek,  what  I  must  find,  what  will  be  home  to 
me." 

"Well,  I  must  be  getting  on,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice  to  the  Young  Doctor,  ignoring  the  question 
which  had  been  asked. 

"If  you  want  work,  there's  work  to  be  had  here, 
as  I  said,"  responded  the  Young  Doctor.  "You 
are  a  man  of  education— 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  asked  Jean  Jacques. 
328 


Jean  Jacques  encamped 


"I  hear  you  speak,"  answered  the  other,  and  then 
Jean  Jacques  drew  himself  up  and  threw  back  his 
head.  He  had  ever  loved  appreciation,  not  to  say 
flattery,  and  he  had  had  very  little  of  it  lately. 

"I  was  at  Laval,"  he  remarked  with  a  flash  of 
pride.  "No  degree,  but  a  year  there,  and  travel 
abroad — the  Grand  Tour,  and  in  good  style,  with 
plenty  to  do  it  with.  Oh,  certainly,  no  thought  for 
sous,  hardly  for  francs!  It  was  gold  louis  abroad 
and  silver  dollars  at  home — that  was  the  standard." 

"The  dollars  are  much  scarcer  now,  eh?"  asked 
the  Young  Doctor  quizzically. 

"I  should  think  I  had  just  enough  to  pay  you," 
said  the  other,  bridling  up  suddenly;  for  it  seemed 
to  him  the  Young  Doctor  had  become  ironical  and 
mocking;  and  though  he  had  been  mocked  much  in 
his  day,  there  were  times  when  it  was  not  easy  to 
endure  it. 

The  truth  is  the  Young  Doctor  was  somewhat  of 
an  expert  in  human  nature,  and  he  deeply  wanted 
to  know  the  history  of  this  wandering  habitant,  be- 
cause he  had  a  great  compassionate  liking  for  him. 
If  he  could  get  the  little  man  excited,  he  might  be 
able  to  find  out  what  he  wanted.  During  the  days 
in  which  the  wanderer  had  been  in  his  house,  he  had 
been  far  from  silent,  for  he  joked  at  his  own  suffer- 
ing and  kept  the  housekeeper  laughing  at  his  whimsi- 
cal remarks;  while  he  won  her  heart  by  the  extraor- 
dinary cleanliness  of  his  threadbare  clothes,  and  the 
perfect  order  of  his  scantily-furnished  knapsack.  It 
had  the  exactness  of  one  who  "was  set  upon  a  far 
course  and  would  carry  it  out  on  scientific  calcula- 

329 


The  Money  Master 


tion.  He  had  been  full  of  mocking  quips  and  sallies 
at  himself,  but  from  first  to  last  he  never  talked. 
The  things  he  said  were  nothing  more  than  surface 
sounds,  as  it  were — the  ejaculations  of  a  mind,  not 
its  language  or  its  meanings. 

"He's  had  some  strange  history,  this  queer  little 
man,"  said  the  housekeeper  to  the  Young  Doctor; 
"and  I'd  like  to  know  what  it  is.  Why,  we  don't 
even  know  his  name." 

"So  would  I,"  rejoined  the  Young  Doctor,  "and 
I'll  have  a  good  try  for  it." 

He  had  had  his  try  more  than  once,  but  it  had  not 
succeeded.  Perhaps  a  little  torture  would  do  it, 
he  thought ;  and  so  he  had  made  the  rather  tactless 
remark  about  the  scarcity  of  dollars.  Also  his  look 
was  incredulous  when  Jean  Jacques  protested  that 
he  had  enough  to  pay  the  fee. 

"When  you  searched  me  you  forgot  to  look  in  the 
right  place,"  continued  Jean  Jacques;  and  he  drew 
from  the  lining  of  the  hat  he  held  in  his  hand  a  little 
bundle  of  ten-dollar  bills.  "Here — take  your  pay 
from  them,"  he  said,  and  held  out  the  roll  of  bills. 
"I  suppose  it  won't  be  more  than  four  dollars  a  day; 
and  there's  enough,  I  think.  I  can't  pay  you  for 
your  kindness  to  me,  and  I  don't  want  to.  I'd  like 
to  owe  you  that;  and  it's  a  good  thing  for  a  man 
himself  to  be  owed  kindness.  He  remembers  it 
when  he  gets  older.  It  helps  him  to  forgive  himself 
more  or  less  for  what  he's  sorry  for  in  life.  I've 
enough  in  this  bunch  to  pay  for  board  and  pro- 
fessional attendance,  or  else  the  price  has  gone  up 
since  I  had  a  doctor  before." 

330 


Jean  Jacques  encamped 


He  laughed  now,  and  the  laugh  was  half -ironical, 
half -protesting.  It  seemed  to  come  from  the  well 
of  a  hidden  past;  and  no  past  that  is  hidden  has 
ever  been  a  happy  past. 

The  Young  Doctor  took  the  bills,  looked  at  them 
as  though  they  were  curios,  and  then  returned  them 
with  the  remark  that  they  were  of  a  kind  and 
denomination  of  no  use  to  him.  There  was  a  twinkle 
in  his  eye  as  he  said  it.  Then  he  added: 

"I  agree  with  you  that  it's  a  good  thing  for  a  man 
to  lay  up  a  little  credit  of  kindness  here  and  there 
for  his  old  age.  Well,  anything  I  did  for  you  was 
meant  for  kindness  and  nothing  else.  You  weren't 
a  bit  of  trouble,  and  it  was  simply  your  good  con- 
stitution and  a  warm  room  and  a  few  fly-blisters 
that  pulled  you  through.  It  wasn't  any  skill  of 
mine.  Go  and  thank  my  housekeeper  if  you  like. 
She  did  it  all." 

"I  did  my  best  to  thank  her,"  answered  Jean 
Jacques.  "I  said  she  reminded  me  of  Virginie  Pa- 
lass  Poucette,  and  I  could  say  nothing  better  than 
that,  except  one  thing;  and  I'm  not  saying  that  to 
anybody." 

The  Young  Doctor  had  a  thrill.  Here  was  a  very 
unusual  man,  with  mystery  and  tragedy,  and  yet 
something  above  both,  in  his  eyes. 

"Who  was  Virginie  Palass  Poucette?"    he  asked. 

Jean  Jacques  threw  out  a  hand  as  though  to  say, 
"Attend — here  is  a  great  thing,"  and  he  began, 
"Virginie  Poucette — ah,  there.  .  .  !" 

Then  he  paused,  for  suddenly  there  spread  out 
before  him  that  past,  now  so  far  away,  in  which 

331 


The  Money  Master 


he  had  lived — and  died.  Strange  that  when  he  had 
mentioned  Virginie's  name  to  the  housekeeper  he 
had  no  such  feeling  as  possessed  him  now.  It  had 
been  on  the  surface,  and  he  had  used  her  name 
without  any  deep  stir  of  the  waters  far  down  in  his 
soul.  But  the  Young  Doctor  was  fingering  the 
doors  of  his  inner  life, — all  at  once  this  conviction 
came  to  him — and  the  past  rushed  upon  him  with 
all  its  disarray  and  ignominy,  its  sorrow,  joy,  ela- 
tion and  loss.  Not  since  he  had  left  the  scene  of 
his  defeat,  not  since  the  farewell  to  his  dead  Carmen, 
that  sweet  summer  day  when  he  had  put  the  lovely, 
ruined  being  away  with  her  words,  "Jean  Jacques 
— ah,  my  beautiful  Jean  Jacques,11  ringing  in  his  ears, 
had  he  ever  told  anyone  his  story.  He  had  had  a 
feeling  that,  as  Carmen  had  been  restored  to  him 
without  his  crying  out,  or  vexing  others  with  his 
sad  history,  so  would  Zoe  also  come  back  to  him. 
Patience  and  silence  was  his  motto. 

Yet  how  was  it  that  here  and  now  there  came  an 
overpowering  feeling,  that  he  must  tell  this  healer 
of  sick  bodies  the  story  of  an  invalid  soul?  This  man 
with  the  piercing  dark-blue  eyes  before  him,  who 
looked  so  resolute,  who  had  the  air  of  one  who  could 
say,  "This  is  the  way  to  go,"  because  he  knew  and 
was  sure;  he  was  not  to  be  denied. 

"Who  was  Virginie  Poucette?"  repeated  the 
Young  Doctor  insistently,  yet  ever  so  gently. 
"Was  she  such  a  prize  among  women?  WTiat  did 
she  do?" 

A  flood  of  feeling  passed  over  Jean  Jacques'  face. 
He  looked  at  his  hat  and  his  knapsack  lying  in  a 

332 


Jean  Jacques  encamped 


chair,  with  a  desire  to  seize  them  and  fly  from  the 
inquisitor;  then  a  sense  of  fatalism  came  upon  him. 
As  though  he  had  received  an  order  from  within  his 
soul,  he  said  helplessly : 

"Well,  if  it  must  be,  it  must." 

Then  he  swept  the  knapsack  and  his  hat  from  the 
chair  to  the  floor,  and  sat  down. 

"I  will  begin  at  the  beginning,"  he  said  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  those  of  the  Young  Doctor,  yet  looking 
beyond  him  to  far-off  things.  "I  will  start  from 
the  time  when  I  used  to  watch  the  gold  Cock  of 
Beaugard  turning  on  the  mill,  when  I  sat  in  the 
doorway  of  the  Manor  Cartier  in  my  pinafore.  I 
don't  know  why  I  tell  you,  but  maybe  it  was  meant 
I  should.  I  obey  conviction.  While  you  are  able 
to  keep  logic  and  conviction  hand  in  hand  then 
everything  is  all  right.  I  have  found  that  out. 
Logic,  philosophy  are  the  props  of  life,  but  still 
you  must  obey  the  impulse  of  the  soul — oh,  abso- 
lutely! You  must " 

He  stopped  short.  "But  it  will  seem  strange  to 
you,"  he  added  after  a  moment,  in  which  the  Young 
Doctor  gestured  to  him  to  proceed,  "to  hear  me 
talk  like  this — a  wayfarer — a  vagabond  you  may 
think.  But  in  other  days  I  was  in  places — 

The  Young  Doctor  interjected  with  abrupt  friendli- 
ness that  there  was  no  -need  to  say  he  had  been  in 
high  places.  It  would  still  be  apparent,  if  he  were 
in  rags. 

"Then,  there,  I  will  speak  freely,"  rejoined  Jean 
Jacques,  and  he  took  the  cherry-brandy  which  the 
other  offered  him,  and  drank  it  off  with  gusto. 

333 


The  Money  Master 


"Ah,  that — that,"  he  said,  "is  like  the  cordials 
Mere  Langlois  used  to  sell  at  Vilray .  She  and  Virginie 
Poucette  had  a  place  together  on  the  market — none 
better  than  Mere  Langlois  except  Virginie  Poucette, 
and  she  was  like  a  drink  of  water  in  the  desert.  .  .  . 
Well,  there,  I  will  begin.  Now  my  father  was — 

It  was  lucky  there  were  no  calls  for  the  Young 
Doctor  that  particular  early  morning,  else  the  course 
of  Jean  Jacques'  life  might  have  been  greatly  different 
from  what  it  became.  He  was  able  to  tell  his  story 
from  the  very  first  to  the  last.  Had  it  been  inter- 
rupted or  unfinished  one  name  might  not  have  been 
mentioned.  When  Jean  Jacques  used  it,  the  Young 
Doctor  sat  up  and  leaned  forward  eagerly,  while 
a  light  came  into  his  face — a  light  of  surprise,  of 
revelation  and  understanding. 

When  Jean  Jacques  came  to  that  portion  of  his 
life  when  manifest  tragedy  began, — it  began  of  course 
on  the  Antoine,  but  then  it  was  not  manifest — when 
his  Carmen  left  him  after  the  terrible  scene  with 
George  Masson,  he  paused  and  said:  "I  don't 
know  why  I  tell  you  this,  for  it  is  not  easy  to  tell ;  but 
you  saved  my  life,  and  you  have  a  right  to  know  what 
it  is  you  have  saved,  no  matter  how  hard  it  is  to 
put  it  all  before  you." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  he  mentioned  Zoe's 
name — he  had  hitherto  only  spoken  of  her  as  "my 
daughter";  and  here  it  was  the  Young  Doctor 
showed  startled  interest,  and  repeated  the  name 
after  Jean  Jacques. 

"Zoe!  Zoe — ah!"  he  said,  and  became  silent 
334 


again.  Jean  Jacques  had  not  noticed  the  Young 
Doctor's  pregnant  interruption,  he  was  so  busy 
with  his  own  memories  of  the  past ;  and  he  brought 
the  tale  to  the  day  when  he  turned  his  face  to  the 
West  to  look  for  Zoe.  Then  he  paused. 

"And  then?"  the  Young  Doctor  asked.  "There 
is  more — there  is  the  search  for  Zoe  ever  since." 

"What  is  there  to  say?"  continued  Jean  Jacques. 
"I  have  searched  till  now,  and  have  not  found." 

' '  How  have  you  lived  ?"  asked  the  other. 

"Keeping  books  in  shops  and  factories,  collecting 
accounts  for  storekeepers,  when  they  saw  they  could 
trust  me,  working  at  threshings  and  harvests,  teach- 
ing school  here  and  there.  Once  I  made  fifty  dollars 
at  a  railway  camp  telling  French-Canadian  tales 
and  singing  chansons  Canadiennes.  I  have  been 
insurance  agent,  sold  lightning-rods,  and  been  fore- 
man of  a  gang  building  a  mill — but  I  could  not  bear 
that.  Every  time  I  looked  up  I  could  see  the  Cock 
of  Beaugard  where  the  roof  should  be.  And  so  on, 
so  on,  first  one  thing  and  then  another  till  now — till 
I  came  to  Askatoon  and  fell  down  by  the  drug-store, 
and  you  played  the  good  Samaritan.  So  it  goes,  and 
I  step  on  from  here  again,  looking — looking." 

"Wait  till  spring,"  said  the  Young  Doctor. 
"What  is  the  good  of  going  on  now!  You  can  only 
tramp  to  the  next  town,  and — 

"And  the  next,"  interposed  Jean  Jacques.  "But 
so  it  is  my  orders."  He  put  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
and  gathered  up  his  hat  and  knapsack. 

"But  you  haven't  searched  here  at  Askatoon." 

"Ah?  .  .  .  Ah — well,  surely  that  is  so,"  answered 
335 


The  Money  Master 


Jean  Jacques  wistfully.  "I  had  forgotten  that. 
Perhaps  you  can  tell  me,  you  who  know  all.  Have 
you  any  news  about  my  Zo6  for  me  ?  Do  you  know- 
was  she  ever  here?  Madame  Gerard  Fynes  would 
be  her  name.  My  name  is  Jean  Jacques  Barbille." 

"Madame  Zo6  was  here,  but  she  has  gone," 
quietly  answered  the  Young  Doctor. 

Jean  Jacques  dropped  the  hat  and  the  knapsack. 
His  eyes  had  a  glad,  yet  staring  and  frightened 
look,  for  the  Young  Doctor's  face  was  not  the 
bearer  of  good  tidings. 

"Zoe — my  Zoe!  You  are  sure?  .  .  .  When  was 
she  here?"  he  added  huskily. 

"A  month  ago." 

"When  did  she  go?"  Jean  Jacques'  voice  was 
almost  a  whisper. 

"A  month  ago." 

"Where  did  she  go?"  asked  Jean  Jacques,  holding 
himself  steady,  for  he  had  a  strange  dreadful  pre- 
monition. 

"Out  of  all  care  at  last,"  answered  the  Young 
Doctor,  and  took  a  step  towards  the  little  man,  who 
staggered,  then  recovered  himself. 

"She — my  Zoe  is  dead!  How?"  questioned  Jean 
Jacques  in  a  ghostly  sort  of  voice,  but  there  was  a 
steadiness  and  control  unlike  what  he  had  shown 
in  other  tragic  moments. 

"It  was  a  blizzard.  She  was  bringing  her  hus- 
band's body  in  a  sleigh  to  the  railway  here.  He 
had  died  of  consumption.  She  and  the  driver  of  the 
sleigh  went  down  in  the  blizzard.  Her  body  covered 
the  child  and  saved  it.  The  driver  was  lost  also." 

336 


Jean  Jacques  encamped 


"Her  child — Zoe's  child?"  quavered  Jean  Jacques. 

"A  little  girl — Zoe.  The  name  was  on  her  clothes. 
There  were  letters.  One  to  her  father — to  you. 
Your  name  is  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  is  it  not?  I 
have  that  letter  to  you.  We  buried  her  and  her 
husband  in  the  graveyard  yonder."  He  pointed. 
"Everybody  was  there — even  when  they  knew  it  was 
to  be  a  Catholic  funeral." 

"Ah!  she  was  buried  a  Catholic?"  Jean  Jacques' 
voice  was  not  quite  so  blurred  now. 

"Yes.  Her  husband  had  become  Catholic  too. 
A  priest  who  had  met  them  in  the  Peace  River 
country  was  here  at  the  time." 

At  that,  with  a  moan,  Jean  Jacques  collapsed. 
He  shed  no  tears,  but  he  sat  with  his  hands  between 
his  knees,  whispering  his  child's  name. 

The  Young  Doctor  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder 
gently,  but  presently  went  out,  shutting  the  door 
after  him.  As  he  left  the  room,  however,  he  turned 
and  said,  ' '  Courage,  Monsieur  Jean  Jacques !  Cour- 
age!" 

When  the  Young  Doctor  came  back  a  half-hour 
later  he  had  in  his  hand  the  letters  found  in  Zoe's 
pocket. 

"Monsieur  Jean  Jacques,"  he  said  gently  to  the 
bowed  figure  still  sitting  as  he  left  him. 

Jean  Jacques  got  up  slowly  and  looked  at  him  as 
though  scarce  understanding  where  he  was. 

"The  child — the  child — where  is  my  Zoe's  child? 
Where  is  Zoe's  Zoe?"  he  asked  in  agitation.  His 
whole  body  seemed  to  palpitate.  His  eyes  were  all 
red  fire. 

22 


CHAPTER  XXV 

WHAT   WOULD   YOU   HAVE    DONE? 

THE  Young  Doctor  did  not  answer  Jean  Jacques 
at  once.  As  he  looked  at  this  wayworn  fugitive 
he  knew  that  another,  and  perhaps  the  final  crisis  of 
his  life,  was  come  to  Jean  Jacques  Barbille,  and  the 
human  pity  in  him  shrank  from  the  possible  end  to  it 
all.  It  was  an  old-world  figure  this,  with  the  face 
of  a  peasant  troubadour  and  the  carriage  of  an 
aboriginal — or  an  aristocrat.  Indeed,  the  ruin,  the 
lonely  wandering  which  had  been  Jean  Jacques' 
portion,  had  given  him  that  dignity  which  often 
comes  to  those  who  defy  destiny  and  the  blows  of 
angry  fate.  Once  there  had  been  in  his  carriage 
something  jaunty.  This  was  merely  life  and  energy 
and  a  little  vain  confidence;  now  there  was  the  look 
of  courage  which  awaits  the  worst  the  world  can  do. 
The  life  which,  according  to  the  world's  logic,  should 
have  made  Jean  Jacques  a  miserable  figure,  an  ill- 
nourished  vagabond,  had  given  him  a  physical  grace 
never  before  possessed  by  him.  The  face,  however, 
showed  the  ravages  which  loss  and  sorrow  had  made. 
It  was  lined  and  shadowed  with  dark  reflection,  yet 
the  forehead  had  a  strange  smoothness  and  serenity 
little  in  accord  with  the  rest  of  the  countenance.  It 

338 


What  would  you  have  done? 


was  like  the  snow-summit  of  a  mountain  below  which 
are  the  ragged  escarpments  of  trees  and  rocks,  mak- 
ing a  look  of  storm  and  warfare. 

"Where  is  she — the  child  of  my  Zoe?"  Jean 
Jacques  repeated  with  an  almost  angry  emphasis ;  as 
though  the  Young  Doctor  were  hiding  her  from  him. 

"She  is  with  the  wife  of  Nolan  Doyle,  my  partner  in 
horse-breeding,  not  very  far  from  here.  Norah  Doyle 
was  married  five  years,  and  she  had  no  child.  This 
was  a  grief  to  her,  even  more  than  to  Nolan,  who, 
like  her,  came  of  a  stock  that  was  prolific.  It  was 
Nolan  who  found  your  daughter  on  the  prairie — the 
driver  dead,  but  she  just  alive  when  found.  To  give 
her  ease  of  mind,  Nolan  said  he  would  make  the 
child  his  own.  When  he  said  that,  she  smiled  and 
tried  to  speak,  but  it  was  too  late,  and  she  was 
gone." 

In  sudden  agony  Jean  Jacques  threw  up  his  hands. 
"So  young  and  so  soon  to  be  gone!"  he  exclaimed. 
' '  But  a  child  she  was  and  had  scarce  tasted  the  world. 
The  mercy  of  God — what  is  it!" 

"You  can't  take  time  as  the  measure  of  life,"  re- 
joined the  Young  Doctor  with  a  compassionate 
gesture.  "Perhaps  she  had  her  share  of  happiness 
— as  much  as  most  of  us  get,  maybe,  in  a  longer 
course." 

"Share!  She  was  worth  a  hundred  years  of  hap- 
piness!" bitterly  retorted  Jean  Jacques. 

"Perhaps  she  knew  her  child  would  have  it?" 
gently  remarked  the  Young  Doctor. 

"Ah,  that — that!  ...  Do  you  think  that  possible, 
m'sieu'?  Tell  me,  do  you  think  that  was  in  her 

339 


The  Money  Master 


mind — to  have  loved,  and  been  a  mother,  and  given 
her  life  for  the  child,  and  then  the  bosom  of  God? 
Answer  that  to  me,  m'sieu'?" 

There  was  intense,  poignant  inquiry  in  Jean 
Jacques'  face,  and  a  light  seemed  to  play  over  it. 
The  Young  Doctor  heeded  the  look  and  all  that  was 
in  the  face.  It  was  his  mission  to  heal,  and  he  knew 
that  to  heal  the  mind  was  often  more  necessary  than 
to  heal  the  body.  Here  he  would  try  to  heal  the 
mind,  if  only  in  a  little. 

"That  might  well  have  been  in  her  thought,"  he 
answered.  "I  saw  her  face.  It  had  a  wonderful 
look  of  peace,  and  a  smile  that  would  reconcile  any- 
one she  loved  to  her  going.  I  thought  of  that  when 
I  looked  at  her.  I  recall  it  now.  It  was  the  smile 
of  understanding." 

He  had  said  the  only  thing  which  could  have  com- 
forted Jean  Jacques  at  that  moment.  Perhaps  it 
was  meant  to  be  that  Zoe's  child  should  represent  to 
him  all  that  he  had  lost — home,  fortune,  place,  Car- 
men and  Zoe.  Perhaps  she  would  be  home  again 
for  him  and  all  that  home  should  mean — be  the 
promise  of  a  day  when  home  would  again  include 
that  fled  from  Carmen,  and  himself,  and  Carmen's 
child.  Maybe  it  was  sentiment  in  him,  maybe  it 
was  sentimentality — and  maybe  it  was  not. 

"Come,  m'sieu',"  Jean  Jacques  said  impatiently, 
"let  us  go  to  the  house  of  that  M'sieu'  Doyle  But 
first,  mark  this:  I  have  in  the  West  here  some  land 
—three  hundred  and  twenty  acres.  It  may  yet  be 
to  me  a  home,  where  I  shall  begin  once  more  with 
my  Zoe's  child — with  my  Zoe  of  Zoe — the  home-life  I 

340 


What  would  you  have  done? 


lost  down  by  the  Beau  Cheval.  .  .  .  Let  us  go  at 
once." 

"Yes,  at  once,"  answered  the  Young  Doctor. 
Yet  his  feet  were  laggard,  for  he  was  not  so  sure  that 
there  would  be  another  home  for  Jean  Jacques  with 
his  grandchild  as  its  star.  He  was  thinking  of  Norah, 
to  whom  a  waif  of  the  prairie  had  made  home  what 
home  should  be  for  herself  and  Nolan  Doyle. 

"Read  these  letters  first,"  he  said,  and  he  put  the 
letters  found  on  Zoe  in  Jean  Jacques'  eager  hands. 

A  half -hour  later,  at  the  horse-breeding  ranch,  the 
Young  Doctor  introduced  Jean  Jacques  to  Norah 
Doyle,  and  instantly  left  the  house.  He  had  no  wish 
to  hear  the  interview  which  must  take  place  between 
the  two.  Nolan  Doyle  was  not  at  home,  but  in  the 
room  where  they  were  shown  to  Norah  was  a  cradle. 
Norah  was  rocking  it  with  one  foot  while,  standing 
by  the  table,  she  busied  herself  with  sewing. 

The  introduction  was  of  the  briefest.  "Monsieur 
Barbille  wishes  a  word  with  you,  Mrs.  Doyle,"  said 
the  Young  Doctor.  "It's  a  matter  that  doesn't 
need  me.  Monsieur  has  been  in  my  care,  as  you 
know.  .  .  .  Well,  there,  I  hope  Nolan  is  all  right. 
Tell  him  I'd  like  to  see  him  to-morrow  about  the 
bay  stallion  and  the  roans.  I've  had  an  offer  for 
them.  Good-bye — good-bye,  Mrs.  Doyle" — he  was 
at  the  door — "I  hope  you  and  Monsieur  Barbille 
will  decide  what's  best  for  the  child  without  diffi- 
culty." 

The  door  opened  quickly  and  shut  again,  and  Jean 
Jacques  was  alone  with  the  woman  and  the  child. 

34i 


The  Money  Master 


"What's  best  for  the  child!" 

That  was  what  the  Young  Doctor  had  said.  Norah 
stopped  rocking  the  cradle  and  stared  at  the  closed 
door.  What  had  this  man  before  her,  this  tramp 
habitant  of  whom  she  had  heard,  of  course,  to  do 
with  little  Zoe"  in  the  cradle — her  little  Zoe  who  had 
come  just  when  she  was  most  needed;  who  had 
brought  her  man  and  herself  close  together  again 
after  an  estrangement  which  neither  had  seemed 
able  to  prevent? 

"What's  best  for  the  child!"  How  did  the  child 
in  the  cradle  concern  this  man?  Then  suddenly  his 
name  almost  shrieked  in  her  brain.  Barbille — that 
was  the  name  on  the  letter  found  on  the  body  of 
the  woman  who  died  and  left  Zoe  behind — M.  Jean 
Jacques  Barbille.  Yes,  that  was  the  name.  What 
was  going  to  happen?  Did  the  man  intend  to  try 
and  take  Zoe  from  her? 

"What  is  your  name — all  of  it?"  she  asked  sharp- 
ly. She  had  a  very  fine  set  of  teeth,  as  Jean  Jacques 
saw  mechanically;  and  subconsciously  he  said  to 
himself  that  they  seemed  cruel,  they  were  so  white 
and  regular — and  cruel.  The  cruelty  was  evident 
to  him  as  she  bit  in  two  the  thread  for  the  waistcoat 
she  was  mending,  and  then  plied  her  needle  again. 
Also  the  needle  in  her  fingers  might  have  been  in- 
tended to  sew  up  his  shroud,  so  angry  did  it  appear  at 
the  moment.  But  her  teeth  had  something  almost 
savage  about  them.  If  he  had  seen  them  when  she 
was  smiling,  he  would  have  thought  them  merely 
beautiful  and  rare,  atoning  for  her  plain  face  and 
flat  breast — not  so  flat  as  it  had  been ;  for  since  the 

342 


STAND    BACK.      I    WON'T   HAVE    MY   CHILD   DISTURBED!" 


What  would  you  have  done? 


child  had  come  into  her  life,  her  figure,  strangely 
enough,  had  rounded  out,  and  lines  never  before  seen 
in  her  contour  appeared. 

He  braced  himself  for  the  contest  he  knew  was  at 
hand,  and  replied  to  her.  ' '  My  name  is  Jean  Jacques 
Barbille.  I  was  of  the  Manor  Cartier,  in  St.  Sa- 
viour's parish,  Quebec.  The  mother  of  the  child 
Zoe,  there,  was  born  at  the  Manor  Cartier.  I  was 
her  father.  I  am  the  grandfather  of  this  Zoe."  He 
motioned  towards  the  cradle. 

Then,  with  an  impulse  he  could  not  check  and  did 
not  seek  to  check — why  should  he?  was  not  the 
child  his  own  by  every  right? — he  went  to  the 
cradle  and  looked  down  at  the  tiny  face  on  its  white 
pillow.  There  could  be  no  mistake  about  it;  here 
was  the  face  of  his  lost  Zoe,  with  something,  too, 
of  Carmen,  and  also  the  forehead  of  the  Barbilles. 
As  though  the  child  knew,  it  opened  its  eyes  wide 
— big,  brown  eyes  like  those  of  Carmen  Dolores. 

"Ah,  the  beautiful,  beloved  thing!"  he  exclaimed 
in  a  low  voice,  ere  Norah  stepped  between  and  almost 
pushed  him  back.  An  outstretched  arm  in  front  of 
her  prevented  him  from  stooping  to  kiss  the  child. 

"Stand  back.  The  child  must  not  be  waked," 
she  said.  "It  must  sleep  another  hour.  It  has  its 
milk  at  twelve  o'clock.  Stand  aside.  I  won't  have 
my  child  disturbed." 

"Have  my  child  disturbed" — that  was  what  she 
had  said,  and  Jean  Jacques  realized  what  he  had  to 
overbear.  Here  was  the  thing  which  must  be  fought 
out  at  once. 

"The  child  is  not  yours,  but  mine,"  he  declared. 
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The  Money  Master 


' '  Here  is  proof — the  letter  found  on  my  Zoe  when  she 
died — addressed  to  me.  The  doctor  knew.  There 
is  no  mistake." 

He  held  out  the  letter  for  her  to  see.  "As  you  can 
read  here,  my  daughter  was  on  her  way  back  to  the 
Manor  Cartier,  to  her  old  home  at  St.  Saviour's. 
She  was  on  her  way  back  when  she  died.  If  she 
had  lived  I  should  have  had  them  both;  but  one 
is  left,  according  to  the  will  of  God.  And  so  I  will 
take  her — this  flower  of  the  prairie — and  begin  life 
again." 

The  face  Norah  turned  on  him  had  that  look  which 
is  in  the  face  of  an  animal  when  its  young  is  being 
forced  from  it — fierce,  hungering,  furtive,  vicious. 

"The  child  is  mine,"  she  exclaimed — "mine  and 
no  other's.  The  prairie  gave  it  to  me.  It  came  to 
me  out  of  the  storm.  'Tis  mine — mine  only.  I 
was  barren  and  wantin',  and  my  man  was  slippin' 
from  me,  because  there  was  only  two  of  us  in  our 
home.  I  was  older  than  him,  and  yonder  was  a  girl 
with  hair  like  a  sheaf  of  wheat  in  the  sun,  and  she 
kept  lookin'  at  him,  and  he  kept  goin'  to  her.  'Twas 
a  man  she  wanted,  'twas  a  child  he  wanted,  and 
there  they  were  wantin',  and  me  atin'  my  heart  out 
with  passion  and  pride  and  shame  and  sorrow. 
There  was  he  wantin'  a  child,  and  the  girl  wantin' 
a  man,  and  I  only  wantin'  what  God  should  grant 
all  women  that  give  themselves  to  a  man's  arms 
after  the  priest  has  blessed  them.  And  whin  all 
was  at  the  worst,  and  it  looked  as  if  he  was  away 
with  her — the  girl  yonder — then  two  things  hap- 
pened. A  man — he  was  me  own  brother  and  a 

344 


What  would  you  have  done? 


millionaire  if  I  do  say  it — he  took  her  and  married 
her;  and  then,  too,  Heaven's  will  sent  this  child's 
mother  to  her  last  end  and  the  child  itself  to  my 
Nolan's  arms.  To  my  husband's  arms  first  it  came, 
you  understand;  and  he  give  the  child  to  me,  as  it 
should  be,  and  said  he,  'We'll  make  believe  it  is  our 
own.'  But  I  said  to  him,  'There's  no  make-believe. 
'Tis  mine.  'Tis  mine.  It  came  to  me  out  of  the 
storm  from  the  hand  of  God.'  And  so  it  was  and 
is;  and  all's  well  here  in  the  home,  praise  be  to  God. 
And  listen  to  me:  you'll  not  come  here  to  take  the 
child  away  from  me.  It  can't  be  done.  I'll  not 
have  it.  Yes,  you  can  let  that  sink  down  into  you 
-I'll  not  have  it." 

During  her  passionate  and  defiant  appeal  Jean 
Jacques  was  restless  with  the  old  unrest  of  years  ago, 
and  his  face  twitched  with  emotion;  but  before  she 
had  finished  he  had  himself  in  some  sort  of  control. 

"You — madame,  you  are  only  thinking  of  yourself 
in  this.  You  are  only  thinking  of  what  you  want, 
what  you  and  your  man  need.  But  it's  not  to  be 
looked  at  that  way  only,  and " 

"Well,  then  it  isn't  to  be  looked  at  that  way 
only,"  she  interrupted.  "As  you  say,  it  isn't  Nolan 
and  me  alone  to  be  considered.  There's " 

' '  There's  me, ' '  he  interrupted  sharply.  ' '  The  child 
is  bone  of  my  bone.  It  is  bone  of  all  the  Barbilles 
back  to  the  time  of  Louis  XL" — he  had  said  that 
long  ago  to  Zoe  first,  and  it  was  now  becoming  a  fact 
in  his  mind.  "It  is  linked  up  in  the  chain  of  the 
history  of  the  Barbilles.  It  is  one  with  the  genera- 
tions of  noblesse  and  honour  and  virtue.  It  is " 

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The  Money  Master 


"It's  one  with  Abel  the  son  of  Adam,  if  it  comes 
to  that,  and  so  am  I,"  Norah  bitingly  interjected, 
while  her  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  she  rocked  the  cradle 
more  swiftly  than  was  good  for  the  child's  sleep. 

Jean  Jacques  flared  up.  "There  were  sons  and 
daughters  of  the  family  of  Adam  that  had  names, 
but  there  were  plenty  others  you  whistled  to  as  you 
would  to  a  four-footer,  and  they'd  come.  The  Bar- 
billes  had  names — always  names  of  their  own  back 

to  Adam.     The  child  is  a  Barbille Don't  rock 

the  cradle  so  fast,"  he  suddenly  added  with  an 
irritable  gesture,  breaking  off  from  his  argument. 
"Don't  you  know  better  than  that  when  a  child's 
asleep?  Do  you  want  it  to  wake  up  and  cry?" 

She  flushed  to  the  roots  of  her  hair,  for  he  had 
said  something  for  which  she  had  no  reply.  She 
had  undoubtedly  disturbed  the  child.  It  stirred  in 
its  sleep,  then  opened  its  eyes,  and  at  once  began 
to  cry. 

"There,"  said  Jean  Jacques,  "what  did  I  tell 
you?  Anyone  that  had  ever  had  children  would 
know  better  than  that." 

Norah  paid  no  attention  to  his  mocking  words, 
to  the  undoubted  truth  of  his  complaint.  Stooping 
over,  she  gently  lifted  the  child  up.  With  hungry 
tenderness  she  laid  it  against  her  breast  and  pressed 
its  cheek  to  her  own,  murmuring  and  crooning  to  it. 

"Acushla!     Acushla!      Ah,    the    pretty    bird - 
mother's  sweet — mother's  angel!"  she  said  softly. 

She  rocked  backwards  and  forwards.  Her  eyes, 
though  looking  at  Jean  Jacques  as  she  crooned  and 
coaxed  and  made  lullaby,  apparently  did  not  see  him. 

346 


What  would  you  have  done? 


She  was  as  concentrated  as  though  it  were  a  matter 
of  life  and  death.  She  was  like  some  ancient  nurse 
of  a  sovereign-child,  plainly  dressed,  while  the  dainty 
white  clothes  of  the  babe  in  her  arms — ah,  hadn't 
she  raided  the  hoard  she  had  begun  when  first  mar- 
ried, in  the  hope  of  a  child  of  her  own,  to  provide 
this  orphan  with  clothes  good  enough  for  a  royal 
princess ! 

The  flow  of  the  long,  white  dress  of  the  waif  on 
the  dark  blue  of  Norah's  gown,  which  so  matched 
the  deep  sapphire  of  her  eyes,  caught  Jean  Jacques' 
glance,  allured  his  mind.  It  was  the  symbol  of 
youth  and  innocence  and  home.  Suddenly  he  had  a 
vision  of  the  day  when  his  own  Zoe  had  been  given  to 
the  cradle  for  the  first  time,  and  he  had  done  exactly 
what  Norah  had  done — rocked  too  fast  and  too  hard, 
and  waked  his  little  one ;  and  Carmen  had  taken  her 
up  in  her  long  white  draperies,  and  had  rocked  to 
and  fro,  just  like  this,  singing  a  lullaby.  That  lul- 
laby he  had  himself  sung  often  afterwards;  and  now, 
with  his  grandchild  in  Norah's  arms  there  before 
him — with  this  other  Zoe — the  refrain  of  it  kept 
lifting  his  brain.  In  the  pause  ensuing,  when  Norah 
stooped  to  put  the  pacified  child  again  in  its  nest, 
he  also  stooped  over  the  cradle  and  began  to  hum 
the  words  of  the  lullaby: 

"Sing,  little  bird,  of  the  whispering  leaves, 
Sing  a  song  of  the  harvest  sheaves; 
Sing  a  song  to  my  Fanchonette, 
Sing  a  song  to  my  Fanchonette! 
Over  her  eyes,  over  her  eyes,  over  her  eyes  of  violet, 
See  the  web  that  the  weaver  weaves, 

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The  Money  Master 


The  web  of  sleep  that  the  weaver  weaves — 

Weaves,  weaves,  weaves! 

Over  those  eyes  of  violet, 

Over  those  eyes  of  my  Fanchonette, 

Weaves,  weaves,  weaves — 

See  the  web  that  the  weaver  weaves!" 

For  quite  two  minutes  Jean  Jacques  and  Norah 
Doyle  stooped  over  the  cradle,  looking  at  Zoe's  rosy, 
healthy,  pretty  face,  as  though  unconscious  of  each 
other  and  only  conscious  of  the  child.  When  Jean 
Jacques  had  finished  the  long  first  verse  of  the 
chanson,  and  would  have  begun  another,  Norah  made 
a  protesting  gesture. 

"She's  asleep,  and  there's  no  more  need,"  she 
said. 

"Wasn't  it  a  good  lullaby,  madame?"  Jean 
Jacques  asked. 

"So,  so,"  she  replied,  on  her  defence  again. 

"It  was  good  enough  for  her  mother,"  he  replied, 
pointing  to  the  cradle. 

"It's  French  and  fanciful,"  she  retorted— "both 
music  and  words." 

"The  child's  French — what  would  you  have?" 
asked  Jean  Jacques  indignantly. 

"The  child's  father  was  English,  and  she's  goin' 
to  be  English,  the  darlin',  from  now  on  and  on  and 
on.  That's  settled.  There's  manny  an  English  and 
Irish  lullaby  that  '11  be  sung  to  her  hence  and  on- 
ward; and  there's  manny  an  English  song  she'll  sing 
when  she's  got  her  voice,  and  is  big  enough.  Well, 
I  think  she'll  sing  like  a  canary." 

"Do  the  birds  sing  in  English?"  exclaimed  Jean 
348 


What  would  you  have  done? 


Jacques,  with  anger  in  his  face  now.  Was  there 
ever  any  vanity  like  the  vanity  of  these  people  who 
had  made  the  conquest  of  Quebec,  when  sixteen 
Barbilles  lost  their  lives,  one  of  them  being  aide-de- 
camp to  M.  Vaudreuil,  the  governor! 

"All  the  canaries  I  ever  heard  sung  in  English," 
she  returned  stubbornly. 

"How  do  Frenchmen  understand  their  singing 
then?"  irritably  questioned  Jean  Jacques. 

"Well,  in  translation  only,"  she  retorted,  and  with 
her  sharp  white  teeth  she  again  bit  the  black  thread 
of  her  needle,  tied  the  end  into  a  little  knot,  and 
began  to  mend  the  waistcoat  which  she  had  laid 
down  in  the  first  moments  of  the  interview. 

"I  want  the  child,"  Jean  Jacques  insisted  abruptly. 
"I'll  wait  till  she  wakes,  and  then  I'll  wrap  her  up 
and  take  her  away." 

"Didn't  you  hear  me  say  she  was  to  be  brought 
up  English?"  asked  Norah,  with  a  slowness  which 
clothed  her  fiercest  impulses. 

"Name  of  God,  do  you  think  I'll  let  you  have 
her!"  returned  Jean  Jacques  with  asperity  and  de- 
cision. "You  say  you  are  alone,  you  and  your 
M'sieu'  Nolan.  Well,  I  am  alone— all  alone  in  the 
world,  and  I  need  her — Mother  of  God,  I  need  her 
more  than  I  ever  needed  anything  in  my  life!  You 
have  each  other,  but  I  have  only  myself,  and  it  is 
not  good  company.  Besides,  the  child  is  mine,  a 
Barbille  of  Barbilles,  une  Ugitime — a  rightful  child  of 
marriage.  But  if  it  was  a  love-child  only  it  would 
still  be  mine,  being  my  daughter's  child.  Look  you, 
it  is  no  such  thing.  It  is  of  those  who  can  claim 

349 


The  Money  Master 


inheritance  back  to  Louis  XI.  She  will  be  to  me  the 
gift  of  God  in  return  for  the  robbery  of  death." 

He  leaned  over  the  cradle,  and  his  look  was  like 
that  of  one  who  had  found  a  treasure  in  the  earth. 

Now  she  struck  hard.  Yet  very  subtly  too  did 
she  attack  him.  "You — you  are  thinking  of  your- 
self, m'sieu',  only  of  yourself.  Aren't  you  going  to 
think  of  the  child  at  all?  It  isn't  yourself  that 
counts  so  much.  You've  had  your  day,  or  the  part 
of  it  that  matters  most.  But  her  time  is  not  yet 
even  begun.  It's  all — all — before  her.  You  say 
you'll  take  her  away — well,  to  what?  To  what  will 
you  take  her?  What  have  you  got  to  give  her? 
What- 

•  "I  have  the  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  out 
there" — he  pointed  westward — "and  I  will  make  a 
home  and  begin  again  with  her." 

"Three  hundred  and  twenty  acres — 'out  there'!" 
she  exclaimed  in  scorn.  "Anyone  can  have  a  farm 
here  for  the  askin'.  What  is  that?  Is  it  a  home? 
What  have  you  got  to  start  a  home  with?  Do  you 
deny  you  are  no  better  than  a  tramp?  Have  you 
got  a  hundred  dollars  in  the  world?  Have  you  got 
a  roof  over  your  head?  Have  you  got  a  trade? 
You'll  take  her  where — to  what?  Even  if  you  had 
a  home,  what  then?  You  would  have  to  get  some- 
one to  look  after  her — some  old  crone,  a  wench 
maybe,  who'd  be  as  fit  to  bring  up  a  child  as  I  would 

be  to "  she  paused  and  looked  round  in  helpless 

quest  for  a  simile,  when,  in  despair,  she  caught  sight 
of  Jean  Jacques'  watch-chain — "as  I  would  be  to 
make  a  watch!"  she  added. 


What  would  you  have  done? 


Instinctively  Jean  Jacques  drew  out  the  ancient 
timepiece  he  had  worn  on  the  Grand  Tour;  which 
had  gone  down  with  the  Antoine  and  come  up  with 
himself.  It  gave  him  courage  to  make  the  fight 
for  his  own. 

"The  good  God  would  see  that "  he  began. 

"The  good  God  doesn't  interfere  in  bringing  up 
babies,"  she  retorted.  "That's  the  work  for  the 
fathers  and  mothers,  or  godfathers  and  godmothers." 

' '  You  are  neither, ' '  exclaimed  Jean  Jacques.  ' '  You 
have  no  rights  at  all." 

"I  have  no  rights — eh?  I  have  no  rights!  Look 
at  the  child.  Look  at  the  way  she's  clothed.  Look 
at  the  cradle  in  which  it  lies.  It  cost  fifteen  dollars; 
and  the  clothes — what  they  cost  would  keep  a  family 
half  a  year.  I  have  no  rights,  is  it? — I  who  stepped 
in  and  took  the  child  without  question,  without 
bein'  asked,  and  made  it  my  own,  and  treated  it  as 
if  it  was  me  own.  No,  by  the  love  of  God,  I  treated 
it  far,  far  better  than  if  it  had  been  me  own.  Be- 
cause a  child  was  denied  me,  the  hunger  of  the  years 
made  me  love  the  child  as  a  mother  would  on  a 
desert  island  with  one  child  at  her  knees." 

"You  can  get  another — one  not  your  own,  as  this 
isn't,"  argued  Jean  Jacques  fiercely. 

She  was  not  to  be  forced  to  answer  his  arguments 
directly.  She  chose  her  own  course  to  convince. 
"Nolan  loves  this  child  as  if  it  was  his,"  she  de- 
clared, her  eyes  all  afire,  "but  he  mightn't  love 
another — men  are  queer  creatures.  Then  where 
would  I  be?  and  what  would  the  home  be  but 
what  it  was  before — as  cold,  as  cold  and  bitter!  It 


The  Money  Master 


was  the  hand  of  God  brought  the  child  to  the  door 
of  two  people  who  had  no  child  and  who  prayed  for 
one.  Do  you  deny  it  was  the  hand  of  God  that 
brought  your  daughter  hereaway,  that  put  the 
child  in  my  arms?  Not  its  mother,  am  I  not?  But 
I  love  her  better  than  twenty  mothers  could.  It's 
the  hunger — the  hunger — the  hunger  in  me.  She's 
made  a  woman  of  me.  She  has  a  home  where  every- 
thing is  hers — everything.  To  see  Nolan  play  with 
her,  tossin'  her  up  and  down  in  his  arms  as  if  he'd 
done  it  all  his  life — as  natural  as  natural!  To 
take  her  away  from  that — all  the  comfort  here  where 
she  can  have  annything  she  wants!  With  my  old 
mother  to  care  for  her,  if  so  be  I  was  away  to  mar- 
ket or  whereabouts — one  that  brought  up  six  chil- 
dren, a  millionaire  among  them,  praise  be  to  God 
as  my  mother  did — to  take  this  delicate  little  thing 
away  from  here,  what  a  sin  and  crime  'twould  be! 
She  herself  'd  never  forgive  you  for  it,  if  ever  she 
grew  up — though  that's  not  likely,  things  bein'  as 
they  are  with  you,  and  you  bein'  what  you  are.  Ah, 
there — there  she  is  awake  and  smilin',  and  kickin' 
up  her  pretty  toes  this  minute!  There  she  is,  the 
lovely  little  Zoe,  with  eyes  like  black  pearls.  .  .  . 
See  now — see  now  which  she'll  come  to — to  you  or 
me,  m'sieu'.  There,  put  out  your  arms  to  her,  and 
I'll  put  out  mine,  and  see  which  she'll  take.  I'll 
stand  by  that — I'll  stand  by  that.  Let  the  child 
decide.  Hold  out  your  arms,  and  so  will  I." 

With  an  impassioned  word  Jean  Jacques  reached 
down  his  arms  to  the  child,  which  lay  laughing  up  at 
them  and  kicking  its  pink  toes  into  the  air,  and 

352 


What  would  you  have  done? 


Norah  Doyle  did  the  same,  murmuring  an  Irish 
love-name  for  a  child.  Jean  Jacques  was  silent, 
but  in  his  face  was  the  longing  of  a  soul  sick  for 
home,  of  one  who  desires  the  end  of  a  toilsome  road. 

The  laughing  child  crooned  and  spluttered  and 
shook  its  head,  as  though  it  was  playing  some  happy 
game.  It  looked  first  at  Norah,  then  at  Jean  Jacques, 
then  at  Norah  again,  and  then,  with  a  little  gurgle 
of  pleasure,  stretched  out  its  arms  to  her  and  half- 
raised  itself  from  the  pillow.  With  a  glad  cry  Norah 
gathered  it  to  her  bosom,  and  triumph  shone  in  her 
face. 

"Ah,  there,  you  see!"  she  said,  as  she  lifted  her 
face  from  the  blossom  at  her  breast. 

"There  it  is,"  said  Jean  Jacques  with  shaking 
voice. 

"You  have  nothing  to  give  her — I  have  every- 
thing," she  urged.  "My  rights  are  that  I  would 
die  for  the  child  —  oh,  fifty  times!  .  .  .  What  are 
you  going  to  do,  m'sieu'?" 

Jean  Jacques  slowly  turned  and  picked  up  his  hat. 
He  moved  with  the  dignity  of  a  hero  who  marches 
towards  a  wall  to  meet  the  bullets  of  a  firing-squad. 

"You  are  going?"  Norah  whispered,  and  in  her 
eyes  was  a  great  relief  and  the  light  of  victory.  The 
golden  link  binding  Nolan  and  herself  was  in  her 
arms,  over  her  heart. 

Jean  Jacques  did  not  speak  a  word  in  reply,  though 
his  lips  moved.  She  held  out  the  little  one  to  him 
for  a  good-bye,  but  he  shook  his  head.  If  he  did 
that — if  he  once  held  her  in  his  arms — he  would  not 
be  able  to  give  her  up.  Gravely  and  solemnly,  how- 

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The  Money  Master 


ever,  he  stooped  over  and  kissed  the  lips  of  the  child 
lying  against  Norah's  breast.  As  he  did  so,  with 
a  quick,  mothering  instinct  Norah  impulsively 
kissed  his  shaggy  head,  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  She  smiled  too,  and  Jean  Jacques  saw  how 
beautiful  her  teeth  were — cruel  no  longer. 

He  moved  away  slowly.  At  the  door  he  turned, 
and  looked  back  at  the  two — a  long,  lingering  look 
he  gave.  Then  he  faced  away  from  them  again. 

"Moi — je  suis  philosophe,"  he  said  gently,  and 
opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  and  away  into  the 
frozen  world. 


EPILOGUE 

might  lay  its  hand  on  the  parish  of 
St.  Saviour's,  and  it  did  so  on  the  beautiful 
sentient  living  thing,  as  on  the  thing  material  and 
man-made;  but  there  was  no  change  in  the  shelter- 
ing friendship  of  Mont  Violet  or  the  flow  of  the 
illustrious  Beau  Cheval.  The  autumns  also  changed 
not  at  all.  They  cast  their  pensive  canopies  over 
the  home-scene  which  Jean  Jacques  loved  so  well, 
before  he  was  exhaled  from  its  bosom. 

One  autumn  when  the  hillsides  were  in  those 
colours  which  none  but  a  rainbow  of  the  moon  ever 
had,  so  delicately  sad,  so  tenderly  assuring,  a 
traveller  came  back  to  St.  Saviour's  after  a  long 
journey.  He  came  by  boat  to  the  landing  at  the 
Manor  Cartier,  rather  than  by  train  to  the  railway- 
station,  from  which  there  was  a  drive  of  several 
miles  to  Vilray.  At  the  landing  he  was  met  by  a 
woman,  as  much  a  miniature  of  the  days  of  Or- 
leanist  France  as  himself.  She  wore  lace  mits  which 
covered  the  hands  but  not  the  fingers,  and  her  gown 
showed  the  outline  of  a  meek  crinoline. 

"Ah,  Fille— ah,  dear  Fille!"  said  the  little  frag- 
ment of  an  antique  day,  as  the  Clerk  of  the  Court — 
rather,  he  that  had  been  for  so  many  years  Clerk 
of  the  Court — stepped  from  the  boat.  "I  can 

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scarce  believe  that  you  are  here  once  more.  Have 
you  good  news?" 

"It  was  to  come  back  with  good  news  that  I 
went,"  her  brother  answered  smiling,  his  face  lighted 
by  an  inner  exaltation. 

"Dear,  dear  Fille!"  She  always  called  him  that 
now,  and  not  by  his  Christian  name,  as  though  he 
was  a  peer.  She  had  done  so  ever  since  the  Govern- 
ment had  made  him  a  magistrate,  and  Laval  Univer- 
sity had  honoured  him  with  the  degree  of  doctor  of 
laws. 

She  was  leading  him  to  the  pony-carriage  in  which 
she  had  come  to  meet  him,  when  he  said: 

"Do  you  think  you  could  walk  the  distance,  my 
dear?  ...  It  would  be  like  old  times,"  he  added 
gently. 

"I  could  walk  twice  as  far  to-day,"  she  answered, 
and  at  once  gave  directions  for  the  young  coachman 
to  put  "His  Honour's"  bag  into  the  carriage.  In 
spite  of  Fille's  reproofs  she  insisted  in  calling  him 
that  to  the  servants.  They  had  two  servants  now, 
thanks  to  the  legacy  left  them  by  the  late  Judge 
Carcasson. 

Presently  M.  Fille  took  her  by  the  hand.  "Before 
we  start — one  look  yonder,"  he  murmured,  pointing 
towards  the  mill  which  had  once  belonged  to  Jean 
Jacques,  now  rebuilt  and  looking  almost  as  of  old. 
"I  promised  Jean  Jacques  that  I  would  come  and 
salute  it  in  his  name,  before  I  did  aught  else,  and  so 
now  I  do  salute  it." 

He  waved  a  hand  and  made  a  bow  to  the  gold  Cock 
of  Beaugard,  the  pride  of  all  the  vanished  Barbilles. 

356 


Epilogue 

"Jean  Jacques  Barbille  says  that  his  head  is  up 
like  yours,  M.  le  Coq,  and  he  wishes  you  many, 
many  winds  to  come,"  he  recited  quite  seriously,  and 
as  though  it  was  not  out  of  tune  with  the  modern 
world. 

The  gold  Cock  of  Beaugard  seemed  to  understand, 
for  it  swung  to  the  left,  and  now  a  little  to  the  right, 
and  then  stood  still,  as  if  looking  at  the  little  pair  of 
exiles  from  an  ancient  world — of  which  the  only 
vestiges  remaining  may  be  found  in  old  Quebec. 

This  ceremony  over,  they  walked  towards  Mont 
Violet,  averting  their  heads  as  they  passed  the  Manor 
Cartier,  in  a  kind  of  tribute  to  its  departed  master 
— as  a  Stuart  Legitimist  might  pass  the  big  palace 
at  the  end  of  the  Mall  in  London.  In  the  wood-path, 
Fille  took  his  sister's  hand. 

"I  will  tell  you  what  you  are  so  trembling  to  hear," 
he  said.  ' '  There  they  are  at  peace,  Jean  Jacques  and 
Virginie — that  best  of  best  women." 

"To  think — married  to  Virginie  Poucette — to 
think  of  that!"  His  sister's  voice  fluttered  as  she 
spoke. 

"But  entirely.  There  was  nothing  in  the  way — 
and  she  meant  to  have  him,  the  dear  soul !  I  do  not 
blame  her,  for  at  bottom  he  is  as  good  a  man  as  lives. 
Our  Judge  called  him  'That  dear  fool,  Jean  Jacques, 
a  man  of  men  in  his  way,  after  all,'  and  our  Judge  was 
always  right — but  yes,  nearly  always  right." 

After  a  moment  of  contented  meditation  he  re- 
sumed. "Well,  when  Virginie  sold  her  place  here 
and  went  to  live  with  her  sister  out  at  Shilah  in  the 
West,  she  said,  'If  Jean  Jacques  is  alive,  he  will  be 

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on  the  land  which  was  Zoe's,  which  he  bought  for 
her.  If  he  is  alive — then!'  So  it  was,  and  by  one 
of  the  strange  accidents  which  chance  or  women 
like  Virginie,  who  have  plenty  of  courage  in  their 
simpleness,  arrange,  they  met  on  that  three  hundred 
and  sixty  acres.  It  was  like  the  genius  of  Jean 
Jacques  to  have  done  that  one  right  thing  which 
would  save  him  in  the  end — a  thing  which  came  out 
of  his  love  for  his  child — the  emotion  of  an  hour. 
Indeed,  that  three  hundred  and  sixty  acres  was  his 
salvation  after  he  learned  of  Zoe's  death,  and  the 
other  little  Zoe,  his  grandchild,  was  denied  to  him— 
to  close  his  heart  against  what  seemed  that  last 
hope,  was  it  not  courage?  And  so,  and  so  he  has 
the  reward  of  his  own  soul — a  home  at  last  once 
more." 

"With  Virginie  Poucette — Fille,  Fille,  how  things 
come  round!"  exclaimed  the  little  lady  in  the  tiny 
bonnet  with  the  mauve  strings. 

"More  than  Virginie  came  round,"  he  replied 
almost  oracularly.  "Who,  think  you,  brought  him 
the  news  that  coal  was  found  on  his  acres — who  but 
the  husband  of  Virginie's  sister!  Then  came  Vir- 
ginie. On  the  day  Jean  Jacques  saw  her  again,  he 
said  to  her,  'What  you  would  have  given  me  at  such 
cost,  now  let  me  pay  for  with  the  rest  of  my  life.  It 
is  the  great  thought  which  was  in  your  heart  that  I 
will  pay  for  with  the  days  left  to  me." 

A  flickering  smile  brightened  the  sensitive  ascetic 
face,  and  humour  was  in  the  eyes.  "What  do  you 
think  Virginie  said  to  that?  Her  sister  told  me. 
Virginie  said  to  that,  'You  will  have  more  days  left. 

358 


Epilogue 

Jean  Jacques,  if  you  have  a  better  cook.  What  do 
you  like  best  for  supper?'  And  Jean  Jacques 
laughed  much  at  that.  Years  ago  he  would  have 
made  a  speech  at  it!" 

"Then  he  is  no  more  a  philosopher?" 

"Oh  always,  always,  but  in  his  heart,  and  not 
with  his  tongue.  I  cried,  and  so  did  he,  when  we 
met  and  when  we  parted.  I  think  I  am  getting  old, 
for  indeed  I  could  not  help  it:  yet  there  was  peace 
in  his  eyes — peace." 

"His  eyes  used  to  rustle  so." 

"Rustle — that  is  the  word.  Now,  that  is  what 
he  has  learned  in  life — the  way  to  peace.  When  I 
left  him,  it  was  with  Virginie  close  beside  him,  and 
when  I  said  to  him,  'Will  you  come  back  to  us  one 
day,  Jean  Jacques?'  he  said,  'But  no,  Fille,  my 
friend;  it  is  too  far.  I  see  it — it  is  a  million  miles 
away — too  great  a  journey  to  go  with  the  feet,  but 
with  the  soul  I  will  visit  it.  The  soul  is  a  great 
traveller.  I  see  it  always — the  clouds  and  the 
burnings  and  the  pitfalls  gone — out  of  sight — in 
memory  as  it  was  when  I  was  a  child.  Well,  there 
it  is,  everything  has  changed,  except  the  child- 
memory.  I  have  had,  and  I  have  had  not;  and 
there  it  is.  I  am  not  the  same  man — but  yes,  in 

my  love  just  the  same,  with  all  the  rest He 

did  not  go  on,  so  I  said,  'If  not  the  same,  then  what 
are  you,  Jean  Jacques?"1 

"Ah,  Fille,  in  the  old  days  he  would  have  said 
that  he  was  a  philosopher "  said  his  sister  in- 
terrupting. 

"Yes,  yes,  one  knows — he  said  it  often  enough 
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and  had  need  enough  to  say  it.  Well,  said  he  to 
me,  'Me,  I  am  a —  '  then  he  stopped,  shook  his 
head,  and  so  I  could  scarcely  hear  him,  murmured, 
'Me — I  am  a  man  who  has  been  a  long  journey  with 
a  pack  on  his  back,  and  has  got  home  again.'  Then 
he  took  Virginie's  hand  in  his." 

The  old  man's  fingers  touched  the  corner  of  his 
eye  as  though  to  find  something  there ;  then  he  con- 
tinued. '"Ah,  a  pedlar!'  said  I  to  him,  to  hear 
what  he  would  answer.  'Follies  to  sell  for  sous  of 
wisdom,'  he  answered.  Then  he  put  his  arm  around 
Virginie,  and  she  gave  him  his  pipe." 

"I  wish  M.  Carcasson  knew,"  the  little  grey  lady 
remarked. 

"But  of  course  he  knows,"  said  the  Clerk  of  the 
Court,  with  his  face  turned  to  the  sunset. 


THE   END 


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